


There's Something Magic About This

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2956067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a child, Porthos had been coaxed into casting a spell to find his perfect man -- which quickly became his perfect <i>men</i>. That doesn't mean he actually believes they'll turn up, so Porthos is somewhat shocked when they crash into his life amidst the growing crisis of a looming and dark magic in their small town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light of dawn, light of thine

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to goddamnbatman for the beta and welcome to my Practical Magic fusion. The whole 'perfect man' concept comes from there, but that's pretty much where the similarities end and we dive right into Musketeer drama. Enjoy!

Even as a child, Porthos’ heart had always been bigger than he could have possibly accounted for. He was the boy who took in stray cats until his adoptive mother gave him a look that said he had to stop because their house was getting a _reputation_ (as if it didn’t already have one, being that Anne’s children were those that had lost their parents, but possessed a very rare magical gift).

“Cats,” she’d said fondly and softly, “are a bit too much. You know how people are scared of what they don’t understand. The townspeople already know about our history. They know that this house used to be home to many a witch. They already suspect us dabbling in the shadows with cauldrons and brooms. Let’s not give them a reason to fear, hm, Porthos?” She’d cupped his cheek and it’d taken all his effort not to argue with her.

Because they _were_ witches. Who cared if everyone in the town knew their secret?

Still, even for Anne’s quiet reprimand, Porthos’ heart remained large as ever. He worked two part-time jobs delivering newspapers and bagging groceries and only kept a third of the money. The second third went to Anne and Louis for their food and the house, and the other went to the pet shelter on Main Street, where a fascinating man named Treville would reward Porthos for his kindness with cookies and a story.

Honestly, Porthos was more after the stories than the cookies, as Treville had fascinating tales of far-off places and wild creatures and it seemed as if he had travelled over every inch of the globe.

And, because Porthos’ heart was so very large and open, he also knew that not just anyone was going to be able to capture it. At thirteen, his younger adopted brother had tried to coax him into the time-honoured passage of casting a love spell to create a talisman of a perfect man. D’Artagnan had always been enthusiastic and energetic, sort of like a puppy whose energy you needed to expend. His magic was similar – Anne was always careful to take d’Artagnan out to the forest so they could drain any pent-up magic in d’Artagnan so it didn’t come out at an _inopportune_ time. Porthos had quickly learned that you had to fall in and fit in, or else things went wrong. Still, that barely stopped his stubborn determination to make people accept them for who they were.

At eleven, d’Artagnan thought he knew everything to do with love. Porthos, at fourteen, had already shared a kiss with Charon – one of the neighbourhood boys – and after a quick fumble in an alley behind the pharmacy, they’d both decided that the spark hadn’t been there. Of course Porthos worried that he wouldn’t find his one true soul, but that didn’t mean he was going to resort to love spells.

Was he?

“What harm could it do? I mean, it’s not like we’re creating people out of nothing. We’re just letting the universe know we have a type,” d’Artagnan said, spinning his index finger in circles to keep a pencil in the air spinning with little more than his thoughts. D’Artagnan’s power seemed to zip through the air, light and quick and dangerous. Porthos had always been more grounded in the earth, attuned to the world beneath his feet. He’d come to terms with seeing auras when he was only four, had learned that he could listen to the wind’s secrets when he was six, and found out that he could draw his power from the ground when he was eight. “Porthos,” d’Artagnan pleaded. “Don’t make me do this alone.”

Porthos sighed and sat up, putting aside his comic book so he could give d’Artagnan a look that said ‘on with it’.

“What do we need?”

“Potion ingredients, clearly,” d’Artagnan replied, grabbing hold of Porthos’ hand to tug him through the winding halls of their three-story, wisteria-covered house. Their little town was in the middle of wine country, Paris an hour away and yet a world apart, it seemed. Anne and Louis had gone out, leaving Porthos in charge of d’Artagnan. There had been other boys and girls over the years, but now their numbers dwindled.

Porthos watched d’Artagnan rifle through cupboards as he peered through the withered pages of an old notebook, mumbling to himself as he plucked vials, jars, and all manner of things Porthos didn’t like to think about.

“If we get in trouble for this…”

“Don’t be silly,” d’Artagnan cut him off with a sharp look. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“I hate when you say that.”

Still, Porthos marched after d’Artagnan to collect two large bowls (not exactly _magic_ bowls, seeing as Anne liked to serve salad in them) and they set up shop in the living room. Porthos stared at the layout in front of him, realized that he was actually doing this, and decided he might as well dive right into the madness.

“I’ll start,” d’Artagnan said warmly. “My true love will have the hair of a fiery phoenix.”

Porthos side-eyed him, thinking that he’d been stealing Porthos’ comic books again and was definitely the one who’d put creases in them (though Louis also had a bad habit of sneaking in and doing the same, so maybe he was the one to blame). He glanced up and saw that d’Artagnan was waiting for him to do his, so Porthos took his lead from his younger sibling and stared into the bowl, throwing in the first ingredient (which he thought was honeysuckle).

“Brown hair,” he said. “Soft,” he went on. “With the slightest bit of curl, like the summer air is tugging on it.” In his mind’s eye, he had one image, but he shook his head as another infiltrated it and soon, Porthos couldn’t settle on just one. His big heart had never settled for less and it wasn’t like this was science.“With the hair stopping just at the chin.” 

Porthos thought he could imagine two brown-haired perfect men. It wasn’t like the high priestesses of old were going to come down from the clouds and hit him with a stick, now were they?

So when it came time for the next ingredient, Porthos was ready. “Ice blue eyes, the sort that could stop you in your tracks and light up when he’s laughing. Brown eyes, soft and warm and like liquid.”

“You can’t have two perfect men,” d’Artagnan argued.

“You cast your spell, I’ll cast mine,” Porthos retorted.

“Fine, but my perfect girl has brown eyes, too,” d’Artagnan said and Porthos wasn’t sure how much of that was just because he’d said it first and it was on d’Artagnan’s mind. On and on their spells went until Porthos had built two perfect men, as far as his fourteen year old mind could think.

One with blue eyes so clear you could see the ocean in them, with a serious mouth that hid underlying warmth and the most handsome face he’d ever imagined before. Broad shoulders strong enough to lift you up, but not so overly large that he would intimidate Porthos (who, at fourteen, was lean and small). Not perfect, though, because Porthos didn’t like perfect. So the flaws were there too, like the cleft lip and the aversion to laughter. This first mystery man was strong and agile and precise.

The second had brown eyes, warm and soft, with a demeanor to match. The caretaker, Porthos had already come to think of him, with a constant hint of mischief about him and curls in his hair that were so soft you could spend eternity touching them. Recklessness, in this one, with a touch of arrogance and vanity, but he would have a scar on his forehead that marred some of that beauty just a touch. And he was beautiful, in Porthos’ mind -- beautiful and yet approachable.

The only trouble with putting all his faith and love into these two forms was that neither of them existed.

By the time Anne and Louis returned home, the boys had cleaned up their mess and Porthos returned to his book in their attic-room, staring up at the summer stars and trying not to think about how he felt like he could feel the earth shifting beneath his feet. He felt it every day, but tonight it half felt as though something was going to happen that was new and exciting and might change his life.

“Goodnight Porthos,” Anne whispered from the doorway. “Goodnight d’Artagnan.”

They chorused their goodnights in turn, shifting under the covers.

“And thank you for cleaning up after your spells.”

The lights were turned off and the door was shut before d’Artagnan sat bolt upright in bed and exchanged a panicked look across the room with Porthos. “How does she always _know_?” he hissed, but Porthos could barely hear him for the laughter he couldn’t keep in, his chest heaving with it.

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos said, wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye. “She’s a _witch_. Now go to sleep, brat,” he said, throwing a pillow at him. “Before I use my magic to knock you out.”

“That’s not magic,” d’Artagnan grumped. “That’s just your fist.”

Inclined to agree, Porthos allowed himself to drift off to dreams about two wild, handsome, perfect boys, never knowing that through France, two other young boys had strange dreams of a dark-skinned, excitable young boy with the loveliest smile and laugh they’d ever heard before in their life.

His childhood wasn’t always filled with those lovely idyllic moments. His earliest memories had been dark things, like a cloud surrounding his life. Anne and Louis had been very good at taking those away and replacing them with happier and warmer things, but Porthos wasn’t hard-pressed to remember that there were things out there that could fill a nightmare up with demons and darkness. While magic had been nothing but good and kind to him, he understood that there were darker storms and people out there who wielded it for purposes that weren’t so kind, weren’t so good and giving.

He also knew that while Anne and Louis seemed like perfectly lovely, warm people, there was something darker lingering in the family, too. He found that out during the same year that he’d cast his perfectly hopeless love spell. 

The wisteria-covered house lay adjacent to a graveyard. When he was very little, Porthos had been terrified of the old crumbling stones, even though Louis had taken him by the hand and walked him through many a time to try and reduce that fear by showing him that it was filled with nothing that could actually hurt him. 

“You shouldn’t fear the dead,” he’d explained. “They were once like us and they’ve moved on to the next chapter of their life.” He’d squeezed Porthos’ hand tightly to give him courage. “Besides, what do we have to fear of the dead? We’re special,” he’d whispered. “We can cast them away with a single spell if ever they crept too close.”

That had given him strength for a good number of years, but soon came the reminder that there should always be a healthy degree of fear in anyone’s heart to keep them safe from those truly dangerous things in the world. The day had been grey and gloomy, winter solstice soon approaching. Standing on the back verandah, he’d seen a dark figure standing in the graveyard and had reached for his raincoat to head out and see who it was. He could faintly make out the face, though it was shrouded in a black hood. 

Before he could make his way out there, someone grasped his hand and forcibly held him back. He glanced at it, noting the slight tremble that he didn’t think he was imagining.

It was Louis, staring out at the figure with something like fear. “No, Porthos,” he said, voice trembling mildly. “We should leave her alone.”

“Her?” Porthos had asked. He’d grown strong and confident of his power and magic. Nothing could terrify him now; not ghouls or ghosts or _her_ , whoever this strange woman was. He peered out and watched as she walked back and forth, always eyeing the house. He could feel the strength of the leylines increasing as the solstice loomed closer, drawing out their power.

And the woman in the graveyard seemed to know it, too. He could only just make her out, but she looked familiar. Glancing up to Louis, Porthos saw actual fear on his face and clasped his hand a little tighter.

“Your grandmother is a bit of a wicked witch,” Louis replied, his voice shaking. “And she never quite got over the fact that my father willed me this house.”

Before Porthos could ask for more information, Anne came in and saw the figure in the garden, twining her fingers with Porthos to allow Louis his freedom. He grasped an umbrella and hesitated on the back stoop for a long moment, eventually heading out to talk to the woman with the mad hair and the dark look on her face.

“Who is that?” he asked, as Anne corralled him away from the windows and into the dining room.

“That’s Louis’ mother, Marie,” she said darkly, finding the tarot cards where she’d stored them away under their heavy silver cutlery. “She’s like us. She has her own abilities and powers, but she’s always abused them for her own dark wills. She was a lesson to him in what he didn’t want to be. It’s why we take in children like you,” she said, curling up Porthos’ hand to kiss the knuckles. “It’s why we teach you the goodness of magic, of all the things you can do with it and benefit the world.”

“Is Louis safe?” he asked, now worried for his adopted father’s security.

Anne seemed to hesitate, unsure as to whether he was. It made Porthos wonder what wicked plans were being hatched and why his adoptive grandmother would be lurking in the graveyard near their house. “She’d never hurt him.” There seemed like there was something she wasn’t saying, like a sentence was meant to come after that along the lines of ‘not unless she wanted something and all her plans were in place’. “Listen. Don’t tell d’Artagnan about this. I’ll talk to him myself. And if ever you see her around the town or here at the house…” Her clear gaze locked on Porthos’ and there was a fierce strength that he knew was there, but rarely saw. “You _run_ the other way.”

“I will,” he vowed, beginning to wonder just how powerful and awful this woman was.

Later on that evening, d’Artagnan had curled up on the floor next to Porthos’ bed as he often did when he’d had a nightmare or felt awry. His manner of coping tended to be cocooning inside blankets, pillows, and whatever other warm energies he could pump into the area. Clearly, whatever he’d been told about Marie had unsettled him.

“She tried to kill Louis,” d’Artagnan finally whispered, when he was ready to talk. “Anne said she’d channelled all her power and when his father died and left him the house, she made a talisman of him and tried to kill him.”

It was more than Porthos had been told, but he’d been glad he hadn’t spent his day worrying about voodoo versions of them in this woman’s hands. “So where did she go, after?”

“Louis told her the next time she showed her face here, he’d summon up something she was really afraid of. So if she’s lurking around the house, either there’s something she really wants to get back or she’s come to finish the job.”

“Don’t be so dark,” Porthos grumbled, throwing his pillow at d’Artagnan as he tried to shake the bad thoughts from his head. Louis hadn’t been too shaken when he came back inside and Anne had been as cheerful as ever when they’d eaten dinner. If something was wrong, they would have told them. Besides, the wards around the house were still holding up and Porthos couldn’t sense anything truly horrible about to happen. 

If he had the gift of sight, like Anne did, he might have known that she was bound to come back into their lives, with much more power behind her, but he only knew the here and the now.

As it was, Porthos learned that there were dark things lurking in the family tree that had taken him in. He didn’t know what Marie had done to make people so scared of her, but he had the feeling that he hadn’t seen the last of her.

* * *

_Six Years Later_

“Constance, careful with those, they must weigh at least fifty pounds each,” Porthos said with worry as his assistant tried to carry three bags of river rocks at once into the back of the storage room. Never one to accept shortcomings, Constance always tried to do too much, refused to accept defeat, and was a burst of energy.

D’Artagnan had taken one look at her when they’d started high school and decided that she was it, she was the incarnation of his perfect woman spell. It was true that she fit the bill and that there weren’t many redheads around their little town, but the fact that d’Artagnan hadn’t bothered to look past the borders had always bugged Porthos a little.

The world was a lot bigger than their town boundaries, after all.

They’d been together ever since the ninth grade and even if Porthos didn’t actually believe that she was the living incarnation of anything except the occasional pain in his arse, he liked how happy they made each other and was more than willing to support the two of them in their relationship. Besides, Constance really was the best assistant he’d ever had at the shop.

Fleur de Lys was Porthos’ shop and had been since he was eighteen and came out of a card game very, very, _very_ lucky. It was also lucky that he’d been gambling two towns over and so they didn’t know that he’d enchanted some of the cards. It wasn’t cheating, exactly, so much as making someone think that the cards in his hands were better than the cards in theirs.

Maybe it was a little bit cheating.

Still, when Anne had found out, he’d been chewed a new one and she’d made him swear that if he was done gambling, he was allowed to keep the money. “With one caveat,” she’d said. “It has to go towards something productive and something you can do with your life.” Porthos had thought about it and figured that apart from fencing and wrestling, he didn’t have many other true joys that he could turn into a job.

There was one simple joy he had, of course, that could blossom into a career. Porthos loved being out in the gardens or his greenhouse. The nearby forests gave him amazing wild specimens and he bred and bloomed to sell in the shop. He had a gift for listening to people’s troubles and being open and warm that quickly led to him becoming one of the town’s favourite little stops.

Even Treville, Porthos’ best friend as a child, now came to visit him instead of the other way around. Every day at three o’clock, the door chimes rang and heralded his arrival and today was no different.

“Do not take a single bag more,” he warned Constance. “Sir, please, sit down. Constance, would you put on the tea and I can lug the dirty, heavy bags of rocks into the back?”

She seemed to want to consider that for longer than it probably merited consideration, shrugging her shoulders. “Well, I suppose I could,” she allowed, heading into the small kitchenette that Porthos kept in the back of the store. “How are you today, Mr. Treville?” she called out as Porthos murmured a few words under his breath to enchant the rocks into being a little lighter, floating themselves along as he carried two in his hands to hide the magic as he walked to the back.

Even at twenty, he was still stubborn about using his magic on a regular basis rather than hiding it away, thinking that the consequences could be dealt with. He refused to hide a part of who he was, even as much as it had caused him heartache in the last few years because of that stubbornness.

“All’s well, Constance,” Treville replied. “Better than well, actually. We’ve got a newbie. He’s from Rouen, originally, but went to veterinary school in Paris. He quickly discovered that being a doctor for animals is not quite as in demand as being a doctor for actual people. Lucky for him, of course, I’m intending to retire in a matter of years and was more than happy to take him on.” He murmured his thanks when Constance set tea, sugars, and honey down in front of him.

Porthos washed his hands, drying them on the apron he always wore in the store, and joined them at the counter. While he was still a profitable business, it wasn’t like they were booming and so the middle of the day often lent itself to long conversations amongst friends and other idle chats like this.

“What’s he like?” Porthos asked, because he knew this town. It was small and it was gossipy and if he didn’t find out now, he was sure he’d heard about it at the supermarket in a matter of hours. They were still going on about the new nurse at the local hospital, who’d moved into town eight months ago, but was something of a mystery – they said he had a girlfriend who lived in Chartres and often spent most of his time up there when he wasn’t working.

Of course, for their little community of Dammarie, that also translated to the nurse being some sort of spy or something else ridiculous. He was probably only making house calls and not paying the people in town enough attention.

“I haven’t really seen much of him yet. He’s still moving his things into Gallagher’s old place, the farm,” he explained. “All I know is that he’s bringing a cat with him that might be the most hellish thing I’ve ever seen in my long years. I think the thing is possessed by the devil.”

Porthos snorted and splashed a bit of whiskey into Treville’s tea, just the way he liked it. “Don’t let Mother Superior hear you say that. She’ll try and exorcise the thing,” he warned, with a hint of actual fear in his words. The nuns of their little church were plenty nice and all, but Anne had always warned him to keep a distance.

“The church and witches don’t exactly get along,” she’d pointed out and tomes filled with pictures of pyres and very uncomfortable looking flames helped to keep him cleansed of the notion of ever becoming pious.

It wasn’t like Porthos had any great desires to go to mass, anyhow, so it worked out for all of them. “Well it’s one more new customer, the way I see it,” Porthos announced happily. “Hopefully, he’ll have a bad breakup or want to woo someone and he’ll be in here as regularly as you are.”

“It’s more likely that you’ll see more of me while he does the actual work,” Treville admitted.

“Which we’re very happy about,” Constance promised, squeezing Treville’s hand.

Porthos was pulled from the conversation by Principal Richelieu’s arrival into the shop, d’Artagnan’s bane, who was looking for some help around the shop. Porthos helped him to pick a few wreaths for upcoming graduation, trying not to grimace too heavily at the man’s general unpleasantness as they put together arrangements to his _exact_ specifications. By the time he was finished, Treville was gone and Constance had left a note that she’d left for the day and Porthos should really have something to eat before she had to yell at him.

Chuckling to himself, he tucked that note away in a drawer with three dozen notes exactly like it, locking up the Fleur de Lys for the day and beginning his walk home to Anne and Louis’ place. While he could afford somewhere else to live, he never really felt like he had to go. Besides, they hadn’t brought in any children after him and d’Artagnan and Porthos felt somewhat obligated to continue to help around the house.

Anne was waiting for him on the porch in the swing, patting the space beside her.

“I read the cards this morning,” she murmured, sipping her gin and tonic (she always got started early these days and Louis was no better, what with his red wine from lunch until dusk). “Is there something about your love life that you’re not telling me, Porthos?”

He laughed warmly as he took the other seat, digging his toes into the wooden slats of the porch so he could give them a push and set them in a steady rocking motion. “Apart from it being lonely and sad and my bed being empty? You probably just read one of the cards wrong. Maybe the fates were trying to tell you that I’m going to die alone.”

“Don’t be like that,” she chided. “You’ll find someone again. Just because Flea and Charon …”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Porthos said quietly. _Ever since you told them the truth and they decided on a life without magic in it_ was a bitter pill to swallow, especially when Flea had taken Charon and moved to Paris so the two of them could go to school, move far away, and ignore what Porthos had decided to do with his life. 

He’d built up such a future in his mind for the three of them. He’d already begun to picture the little house they could move into and what they would do with their days. In his head, they all worked with him at the shop, Flea doing the business work and Charon helping with the creation of new flowers. Then, one day, he’d been greeted with the reality of them presenting train tickets and telling him that they were choosing something else -- that they weren’t ready for magic in their lives the way Porthos had learned to accept since he was a boy.

“But we still love you,” Flea had said. “Never, never forget how much we love you.”

Just not enough for them to live in the same world.

Anne leaned her cheek to his shoulder and rubbed her hand on his back in circles the way he’d always loved as a boy. Even though she was only fifteen years older than him, she was the most mother he’d ever had and Porthos didn’t ever want to lose her.

“You need to keep your heart open, Porthos,” she said, when the long and comfortable silence grew somewhat strained and awkward. “When you were a boy, you loved everything you set your eyes on and gave them your heart without a single second of hesitation.”

“And then it got broken and I started to learn to be more cautious,” he said. He still felt like he would be open when the right person came along, but he couldn’t bear wearing his heart on his chest only to have it splintered. “I promise, you’ll have a full and happy table for dinners. After all, d’Artagnan’s got Constance now, hasn’t he?” he pointed out. “You’ll get grandchildren out of them soon, if you’re lucky.”

“Hopefully not too soon. I’m not ready to be a grandmother,” she said, with the look of a woman who was still clinging happily to her youth. “They are a lovely couple, aren’t they,” Anne raved. “I suppose your little love spell worked for him.”

“We were just mucking about, Anne,” Porthos protested.

“I wonder,” she mused, sitting straight and sipping her drink, “did you let the forces of fate know that when you were casting? Usually, putting an asterisk next to a spell to say that you’re _only joking_ doesn’t exactly nullify what you were doing in the first place.”

She squeezed his shoulder once more and left to head inside to start dinner, leaving Porthos’ thoughts to slowly turn towards the faintest creep of hope and curiosity as he let himself wonder if he might actually have created himself the two men he’d thought about all those years ago and where they might be now if they really did exist. Shaking his head and dispelling that notion, he followed after Anne to see if she needed any help.

If he’d stayed on the porch for even two minutes more, he would have seen the stray cat bolt into their yard, followed by its owner cursing after it, but Porthos was already tucked comfortably inside and away from the giant blinking arrows that fate was trying to put right in front of him.


	2. Bring my lovers' hearts to mine

One day a week, Porthos had to devote the majority of his time lugging things from one part of town to another just to keep his business stocked and decent. While he’d managed to easily buy the storefront property with his card-game winnings, he hadn’t been able to get a greenhouse on the grounds. So once a week, he loaded up his beat-up and rusting pick-up truck and began to transfer anything from the greenhouse to the store that could possibly be sold. Clad in a checkered blue scarf and an off-white Henley, Porthos used his neoprene apron to keep himself from getting too dirty, though the life of a florist mostly meant that everything he owned had bits of dirt on it and that nothing was safe.

He was just finishing up with his last few pots when he heard a rustling from the hedgerows beside the street.

“Who’s there?” Porthos asked warily, setting down the heavy pots in the back of the truck. “D’Artagnan? If this is your idea of a practical joke, I’m telling Richelieu you don’t have enough homework,” he warned. The hedgerows continued to rustle and Porthos approached cautiously, wondering what was hiding in there. It could just be an animal or a kid having a laugh, but it could also very well be something _else_.

One of the lessons Anne had instilled in him at a young age was that there were things that lived in a half-world of shadow and light that people like them could see. Still, those things didn’t really gravitate to Dammarie, what with the limited amount of magic in the town (most of it contained under a single roof). Porthos warily stepped just a touch closer as he put aside thoughts of creatures and shadows, and his proximity seemed to coax the thing out from the greenery.

It definitely wasn’t a harbinger of shadow and fear.

At first, it was just a gray blur in the middle of the road, only slowing as it came to a trotting stop at Porthos’ feet, peering up at him with wide, curious amber eyes. It was a cat he’d never seen before, though there were always strays coming in and out of town, encouraged by the fact that most of the shop-owners had a tendency to leave day-old bread alongside a nip of heavy cream. This one, though, had a weird energy around it that Porthos had never felt before. He approached cautiously, but he should have taken the uneasy feeling in his spine as a hint to stay away. 

Porthos never really paid attention to flashing obvious warning signs, which was why instead of bolting, he crouched over instead and cupped his palms out despite the lack of food to offer. Their house didn’t have any familiars, despite Porthos’ pleading insistences as a child, but he’d never really given up the idea of bringing a cat or another animal into their home.

“Who are you, then?” Porthos crooned fondly, reaching his hand out. “Who do you belong to, little one?”

That was when the chaos began.

The cat didn’t seem to like his tone, his presence, or his words. As soon as his fingers got somewhat close to his head, the cat lashed out. It was a blur of claws, fur, and a hurricane of sounds that had Porthos convinced that he was going to die from a cat related incident. God, if there was an actual afterlife, he was pretty sure he’d be greeted by an angel laughing his arse off at the situation. Faintly in the midst of the commotion, he heard Constance’s shocked gasp as she dragged Porthos away from the thing, shooing it away with a harsh sound.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she murmured. 

“I can’t actually open one of my eyes and the other’s a bit blurry, so I hope you’re talking to me and not the cat,” Porthos tried to joke, but he actually did feel a bit worse for the wear. He lifted his hand off his forearm, finding it sticky with an alarming amount of blood that he suspected belonged to him. He could heal himself plenty well with a few herbs and flowers from the shop applied to the wounds, but getting Constance to leave him alone that long was the tricky part. “It’s okay,” he assured (even though it wasn’t and oh, did it sting). “I’ll be fine, Constance, it looks worse than it is.”

“Well, then it must still hurt a terrible amount,” she said. “Come on, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“Constance, no, I hate the hospital.” He hated stitches and needles and anything that involved sharp pointy ends. He’d passed out as a child when getting his vaccines and had a few close calls with even the blood pressure cuff. It hadn’t taken very long for him to beg Anne to teach him healing salves and spells until she’d relented and gave him all her personal notes and photocopied several pages of the family book of spells for his use. He kept a personal garden of what he needed and knew that a few moments with them would undo all ills.

Though, maybe not, because his eye was a bit swollen shut with a scrape from a claw and if he couldn’t see what he was mixing, he had an equal chance of changing himself into something with scales instead of stitching up the skin.

“Fine,” he conceded as the fight bled out of him. “The hospital.”

“That’s a good man.” Constance tried to shoulder his weight as best as she could, nudging her shoulder under his armpit to lever him to a standing position. “What did you do to that poor cat?” she asked, next. “It went after you like you were some sort of sworn villain.”

Which was weird because cats usually loved Porthos and he loved them in turn. 

Maybe this was some sort of holy, religious cat who didn’t believe in witches being let to live. Maybe it had a tiny cat bible lying around and roamed the countryside to rid the country of the plague of magic and … maybe he’d lost a little too much blood, because the mental images were vivid and disturbing, not to mention more than a little _weird_. He protested mildly as Constance loaded him up in her Citroen, but said nothing as she brought him to the hospital, setting him down in a chair with a thick cotton towel for the bleeding as she charged off to find someone to help them.

She was a force of nature and Porthos gave it all of two minutes before someone came running just to make sure she stopped barrelling forward.

Aching, he let his head loll back against the chair and tried to focus his energy on taking his mind off of the pain and putting the focus on his surroundings. He focused on the IV drip of the man two chairs over and on the scribbling of the nurse’s pen. He paid attention to the smell of the lemongrass plant in the corner and the antiseptic.

He resolutely didn’t think about the sounds of people’s pain, though, not sure he could handle thinking about them because that brought the thoughts of why he was here to the forefront of his mind.

Porthos must have zoned out quite a lot because when someone came around and squeezed his shoulder to get his attention, he physically jumped. He’d been cataloguing the injuries the cat had seen fit to give him, which included the deep gash in his forearm which would probably need stitches, the cut to his left eye that sliced from forehead to cheek, and the other assorted scratches that seemed to be littered everywhere else.

“You look like you’ve had quite a round with the local shrubbery,” a man’s warm voice remarked. Porthos craned his neck upwards to see who was speaking to him, but with his eye swollen shut and the other one blurry from dirt, cat dander and fur, all he could make out was the general form of a man. 

“Only if it yowls at you while trying to murder you,” Porthos grumbled, feeling a bit tender about the fact that a single cat didn’t like him. He really had to get over that fact. “You’d think I’d killed the thing’s father and this was a blood feud.”

“Lucky for you, you’re still handsome even with the scars. Maybe even especially with them,” he went on. “I’m Aramis,” he introduced himself. “Your concerned friend has coerced me to help stitch you up.”

“Please tell me you’re not the janitor.”

Aramis’ laugh was musical and genuinely delighted, which made warmth pool in Porthos’ stomach to hear such a lovely sound. “No, but I do clean a good floor,” he said. “I’m the nurse.”

“You’re _the_ nurse,” he said, the epiphany striking him when he figured out that he hadn’t heard that name before. “The one everyone thinks is a spy because of all those weekends you spend up in Chartres instead of here.”

“Personal matters don’t stay personal here, do they?” Aramis tapped Porthos lightly on the knee as he helped him to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you stitched up in one of the exam rooms so everyone can start wondering at the dastardly things I’m doing to you.” Porthos’ legs were perfectly fine he’d thought, but there was a weakness in his knees he didn’t really remember being an issue five minutes ago. “And, just so you know, my mother lives up in Chartres and I’m sorry to say that I’m an awful mother’s boy who can’t help visiting for the free food and laundry that comes of going to see her so often.”

“Don’t tell anyone else,” Porthos opined, settling himself on the crinkled paper atop the bed. “Spy is a much cooler story.”

That earned another one of those lovely laughs, but before Porthos could introduce himself or continue to earn those laughs (and wonder if the smile was just as beautiful), the moment was interrupted by Constance expressing her relief at having found him.

“I half thought you’d done a runner,” she confessed.

“Bit of fear about the hospital, is it?” Aramis asked. Porthos was glad his vision was a bit impaired because he didn’t want to see what Aramis was preparing (though in his mind’s eye, he thought of a very large needle with very thick string to sew him shut). “I’m afraid while I’m very charming and can offer a lovely red lollipop when you’re through, I do have some unfortunate news. Your arm is most definitely in need of being stitched. Unfortunately, your eye appears to need it too.”

Porthos felt a bit clammy and light-headed, swooning as he thought of needles by his eye.

“Oh dear,” Constance murmured, noticing his distress. “Porthos…?”

“Give me a second,” he said, swallowing past a very dry throat. He cursed that awful cat and wondered who would own such a thing before he remembered what Treville had said about the new vet owning a devilish cat. There was a furious lump in his throat as he tried not to let his eyes get hot with tears. “Do you think it’ll scar?”

“Not if you let me stitch it up right now,” Aramis replied, rubbing his hand over Porthos’ back in the very same way that Anne had done for so many years. For someone who practiced a great deal of powerful magic, he was still awed at how much a simple comfort could help. “I can give you a local sedative, but it will require a needle. We used to have numbing cream, but unfortunately no one’s ordered any of the stuff in weeks for lack of use.”

“But it’ll just be once,” he said, though his voice shook slightly. “And then I won’t feel as much while you’re patching up the rest?”

Constance reached out to take his hand. “I won’t let go for a single second. Promise. And Aramis is the best, that’s what they told me at the desk.”

“I do bribe them with coffee every morning, but luckily I actually am the best. My stitching would make your curtains weep with envy.” He continued to rub Porthos’ back in a soothing manner that had him focusing all his attention on that touch. He was able to zone out to the warmth and thought that maybe he wouldn’t even mind the needle. “There we are,” Aramis murmured softly. “Heart rate’s a bit calmer, now. You were beginning to worry me, Porthos.”

He opened his mouth to ask when he’d introduced himself before realizing that it was probably all over the medical charts, not to mention that Constance had said it a moment ago. 

“So this is the fault of a cat, then?”

Porthos nodded miserably, thinking that if the new vet and the owner of this demonic cat ever came in for flowers, Porthos had a very prickly cactus to give him. He ignored the sounds of Aramis preparing a table’s worth of things, thinking that it was for the best that he couldn’t actually clearly see what was going on. Distantly, he recognized that Aramis was just trying to keep him talking and as far as distractions went, it was a bit poor, but he forced himself to pay attention to it and not the blurry needle in his peripheral vision. 

He closed his eyes tightly when the alcohol swab prepared the area and hissed when he felt the prick of it sinking into his skin, grabbing Constance’s hand all the tighter. She soothed him through it, but Porthos felt like she was barely in the room. As soon as he’d been given the local sedative, it was like all of Porthos’ magic began to levitate up towards his skin and he became firmly aware of something in this room brimming with a magic that felt familiar.

It wasn’t Constance, unless she had managed to keep a secret from d’Artagnan all these years (the boy had a talent for poking his nose in people’s business and ferreting out all their secrets), so did that mean that Aramis possessed some sort of magic? It seemed odd, because as Porthos sniffed out the fig and honeysuckle and lethe from the air, he felt as if he recognized that combination of ingredients and ought to know it.

It wasn’t a spell he’d cast in recent days, but he remembered this combination in distant memory.

Maybe he would figure it out when his system wasn’t swimming with pleasant drugs. For now, he let the smell cascade over his senses and let it calm him in the way that Aramis’ hand rubbing circles on his back had done. It was a grounding sensation that brought him home. Eventually, he felt Constance tap the back of his hand lightly. 

“Red or purple?” she was asking.

Porthos dragged himself out of the heady and pleasurable half-sleep he had been in to find that she was sliding a patch over his eye and his arm was fixed up. Unfortunately, with the good came a touch of bad, as Aramis was nowhere in sight. Porthos rubbed at his good eye and took hold of the eye drops Constance was handing him. Something in his expression must have shown his distress, because she gave him a sympathetic look.

“There was a code and he had to run,” she said. “He left behind instructions and your choice of red or purple lollipops.”

Begrudgingly, Porthos chose the red one even though he would have much rather had Aramis’ presence a touch longer. At the very least, he wished that he’d been present after Porthos had flushed out his eye with the drops to see whether he was every bit as handsome as his tone and manner suggested. He stared at Constance and wondered if asking her whether Aramis was handsome was bound to get back to d’Artagnan, which would in turn filter back to Anne and Louis and lead to weeks and weeks of pressuring him to ask the nice nurse out on a date when Porthos had met him for all of a few moments.

(He blamed the drugs for the fact that he automatically should have known that _yes_ , that absolutely was exactly what would happen and so he held his tongue, but only barely)

He stared in dismay at his arm, ran a hand over the patch covering his eye, and thought about planting a poisonous plant outside the Fleur de Lys in case the cat decided to come back for round two. Only he didn’t want to end up punishing all the cats for what one bad seed had done. That wasn’t very fair at all and it wasn’t like he could selectively offer food to all the strays on the off chance that one awful cat came back and he wanted to deny him a treat.

Constance helped him to his feet and chattered on about caretaking instructions (“Which I’ve already scanned over to Anne,” she warned) and told him about the eyepatch he had to wear for a few days, about how he had to change his bandages each night, and about the cream he ought to use to prevent the scratch over his eye from scarring. The steady flow of words helped keep Porthos’ mind off his disappointment that he hadn’t even been able to stop and ask the desk whether they gave out their nurse’s phone numbers.

He soothed himself by thinking of how very small Dammarie was. If Aramis was living and working there, at some point they were bound to run into each other again. 

She dropped him off on the steps of the house and instantly, he heard two sets of feet come storming out. Anne was to be expected, but Louis’ worry was a touch odd. He’d been plenty supportive of Porthos growing up, but never overly demonstrative with affection. The sheer attention he was lavishing on Porthos now was a bit suspicious and strange.

“What happened? What did this?” he demanded, the notes of his words practically singing with high-strung tension. Porthos canted his head around so his good eye could take in Louis (and also the way Anne lightly pinched his side to tone down the assault of questions). “We’re just glad you’re all right, obviously.”

“It was just a cat,” Porthos said, pushing past them to try and make his way for his bed. It was a long day and he probably had a longer one tomorrow, given that he hadn’t exactly had much time to do any work at the shop. 

Pushing forward, he missed the look filled with meaning that Anne and Louis shared behind his back. 

He didn’t miss the tension that was still hanging in the air, though he mistook it for an overly stifling concern over what a stray animal had done to him. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “Really. Though if you’re feeling like making me feel a little bit better,, I’d never say no to those homemade tarts,” he suggested, stomach growling as he realized that he hadn’t eaten since the red lollipop at the hospital and Porthos sincerely doubted that counted as a food group.

“You go rest,” Anne advised. “Your brother’s upstairs waiting for you.”

Porthos headed up to his room and found d’Artagnan sitting in the middle of the bed, gnawing on the pad of his thumb. He knew that Constance had probably called him, but they’d also forged a blood bond when they were younger. While it wasn’t very powerful (they were sort of crap at the upkeep part of maintaining the bond through the years), Porthos didn’t doubt that d’Artagnan had felt some ghostly pain when the cat had been in the midst of its horrible attack.

Honestly, Porthos was just glad the bond had dulled because he didn’t need d’Artagnan feeling how very interested in his unseen nurse as he was -- and it went both ways, because he also didn’t really want to know the intimate details of d’Artagnan’s relationship with Constance because he’d never be able to look either of them in the eye again if that was the case. 

The moment that d’Artagnan saw him, he leapt off the covers and surrounded Porthos in an embrace that made some of the healing cuts sting. He must have looked like an idiot with his pirate patch and he had the suspicious feeling that someone in the house was bound to buy him a stuffed parrot before the healing period was over (his money was on Louis, who had always possessed a childish sense of humour).

“Constance rang and said you were mauled by a cat,” he said, each word utterly and wildly confused. “Porthos, what did you _do_ to that cat?”

“Why’s everyone asking what I did to the cat?” he demanded, feeling a little affronted. “How come no one’s asking what the thing did to me?”

“Maybe because we can all see what he did to you. I mean, maybe you can’t. Remind me not to let you near Louis’ pistols anytime soon,” d’Artagnan said. “Was it a familiar, do you think? Or some sort of manifestation of evil or…”

“It was the new bloke in town’s cat,” Porthos cut him off before he could hear any more wild theories. D’Artagnan had a hundred and a half of them, usually ranging from the mildly mad to the absolutely insane. This one fell sort of in the middle. “Treville was saying the cat’s got a mind of its own, but it’s a cat. It doesn’t need to be an evil witch’s familiar or sent by malevolent forces to be wild. It probably just doesn’t like to be touched and there’s the off chance that I might have tried to pet it.”

That was the last time he’d be offering affection to strays (unless Aramis counted as a stray, in which case he might have to revise his decisions). Speaking of…

“Hey, you know that new nurse in town?”

“New?” D’Artagnan echoed with amusement. “No, the vet is new. The nurse is old news. But yes,” he allowed. “I know him. What about him?”

“Know how to get in contact with him?” He hoped he looked calm, cool, and collected. He hoped his interest didn’t show on his face and he hoped he wasn’t blushing. D’Artagnan was looking at him with curiosity, but Porthos had the lucky excuse of being able to hold up his bandaged arm to give a reason apart from finding him unfairly attractive. “He did my stitching and managed to get me through it without taking a sucker punch to the face, but he had to run off before I could say thank you. I was wondering if you knew where he hung around?”

“The bar,” D’Artagnan said with a shrug. “Not like there are many other places _to_ hang around. You know, you could always just go back to the hospital, find out when he’s working, and thank him there. Unless you don’t want him working when you _thank_ him,” he said, enunciating the words with a flick of his tongue that was honestly too debauched and disturbing for words. D’Artagnan was like a brother to him and he really didn’t need images in his brain as to what his tongue could do. 

“There’s something else,” Porthos said, pointedly not answering d’Artagnan’s question about why he wouldn’t thank him at work. “When I was in that room with him, getting my stitches, I felt a source of magic that felt like mine, but wasn’t mine. Have you ever felt that?”

“With Anne and you and Louis, sure,” d’Artagnan agreed with a ready nod. “Never with a stranger I’d never met before. You think he’s practicing?”

Porthos shrugged, not entirely sure what he felt. Maybe it had been the injuries and the drugs creating some sort of mirroring effect, echoing his own magic back at him when he was feeling just loopy enough not to recognize it. Maybe he was making a mountain out of a molehill, but his curiosity (and his attraction) had been stoked enough for him to want to see it through and see if he couldn’t run into Aramis outside of work. 

Maybe he’d wait until the patch was gone for reasons relating to his vanity, but he still had to make his plans.

“Things are tense downstairs. I can sort of feel the mood drifting up here like a bad storm rising,” d’Artagnan murmured, breaking Porthos from his thoughts. “Ever since Constance called and told them what happened, it’s been like this through the whole house. Was it a black cat?”

Porthos shook his head. “Gray,” he replied. “And a grumpy son of a bitch. Remind me to give the owner a piece of my mind,” he growled, already thinking up some choice words for the vet, seeing as he didn’t have to worry about retribution against one of his pets -- because while d’Artagnan was very puppy-like at times, they typically let the human doctors at him. 

“I met him briefly,” d’Artagnan said. “He’s grumpy, too, just like his pet. I don’t think he smiled once the entire time we spoke. Sort of like a raincloud that follows you around.”

“At least we know why he didn’t go into medicine for people,” Porthos said. “No bedside manner required for parrots and hamsters.”

He rubbed his hand over the bandage on his arm, wincing when he realized that one of his favourite shirts had been ruined by the claws of the cat, not to mention the residual sting was hell to cope with. It caught d’Artagnan’s attention and instantly Porthos regretted giving the thing as much attention as he had, but he’d always been a bit childish about his wounds. Despite his tendency to attract them, he always fussed over even the smallest of them and earned the complaints of everyone around him for his inability to cope.

“Porthos, are you sure nothing was strange about that cat? Anne and Louis don’t usually bicker like this and they really seem worried about what happened.”

“It’s been happening a lot more lately, hasn’t it, them bickering,” Porthos said quietly, having picked up on the tension himself. It showed in the way Louis brought more bottles of red home than before, how Anne read the cards every morning, noon, and night. The house had more wards than ever and Porthos had always thought it a bit strange how they’d never brought on kids after him and d’Artagnan even though there’d been plenty before. It made him even more hesitant than ever to leave the house, even if he didn’t know what was going on. “Maybe they’re just having marital problems.”

“They’re not even really married, are they?”

While Porthos had assumed they were man and wife, they didn’t wear traditional wedding rings (more large gleaming gemstones set in silvers and iron that they wore on their pinky fingers) and though there were plenty of pictures of the two of them around the house, none were wedding photos. He’d never thought he had the right to poke his nose into their business, though, and if they were happy, who cared whether they were wed or not.

“Well, maybe they’re having couple problems,” Porthos retorted, too tired for this sort of bickering. “Now will you get out of here? I’ve had an exhausting day and all I want to do is nap. Can I please nap?”

D’Artagnan relented with a huff, but he didn’t leave the room before he surrounded Porthos in one last crushing hug, bounding downstairs to help Anne prepare some of Porthos’ favourite strawberry tarts while he drifted off, barely needing a push at all to fall into dreamland.

His dreams were hazy and thick, but there were three things he came out of the dream remembering.

The first was Aramis’ laugh, guiding him through a thick gray fog that covered the grounds of the house. The wisteria had died, in the dream, and the choking fog had begun to infiltrate every single room. Aramis’ laugh had been a high note through it all, guiding him out of there and acting like a silver thread in the maze.

The second thing had been a piercing blue light, though Porthos hadn’t known what or who it belonged to. It hung like a lighthouse on top of the attic, repelling thick peals of black smoke away. 

And the last thing he remembered was a little gray cat sitting on the stoop, licking its paw and meowing smugly at Porthos.

Even those memories of the dream began to fade when he woke to the smell of strawberry tarts filling the house and the warm, joyful tones of conversation coming from the kitchen below. He curled up with his woollen blanket and let the sounds of his family wash over him. Louis was asking who wanted a mixed drink, Anne was cautioning d’Artagnan not to touch the trays while they were too hot, and clearly he hadn’t listened, because the next thing Porthos heard was the wild shout of someone who’d definitely touched something he wasn’t supposed to. 

Rubbing his eyes and casting off the rest of the dream, Porthos wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and made his way downstairs to join the rest of them.


	3. May this day send them to me

Aramis had informed him that it would take a frustratingly long four days before the eyepatch could come off of Porthos’ face and he was only on day three. He’d been diligent in applying the cream to his eye, still fearing a long scar would be his souvenir from the attack. He knew he wasn’t going to win any local beauty pageants, but it wasn’t like he wanted a scar that called attention to himself in such a small town that had such bad habits when it came to chatter and close-mindedness. Being a witch was plenty enough to worry about without having a big sign on his face that said ‘pay attention to me’. 

Casting with subtlety would never happen if the thing lingered and while Porthos didn’t want to hide, he also didn’t feel like becoming the poster boy for magic.

Once the patch had been retired, Porthos decided it was time to come face to face with the owner of the devil cat that had given him the scar in the first place. He made sure that Treville was at Fleur de Lys, properly out of the way before Porthos grasped his hospital bill and marched over to the little veterinary office in town, which had been looking worse for the wear for several years now -- the letters of the sign were missing and it could desperately use a new coat of paint, but Treville had abandoned the upkeep and now preferred to pour his money into his trips.

Porthos stormed inside, ignoring how the gentle tinkle of the door chimes didn’t exactly go with his angry mood and took a seat next to the only other person in there -- who happened to be Agnes from down the street, with little Henri’’s pet puppy bundled in her lap. 

“Porthos,” she greeted him warmly. Porthos immediately knew that his plans had to wait for a while as he realized he couldn’t exactly chew out the vet while poor Agnes and the dog watched. So instead, he picked up a National Geographic and buried his face in it while the doctor saw to his furry patient. Porthos waited very patiently for that so-very-light shimmer of chimes before he set the magazine down and marched to the front counter, summoning up all his ire before slamming his palm down on the little bell on the desk.

“One moment,” came a bored sounding man from the back of the office. “If you’re new, there are forms on the counter to fill out for your beloved animal. If you’re old, you’re correct in that I’m not Monsieur Treville and well done, your ears have not failed you in identifying the interloper.”

Porthos resolutely reminded himself that he was here to be mad at the new doctor, not be charmed by his wry humour. 

Porthos hit the bell again, which seemed to summon Monsieur New Vet out from the depths of the back offices, carrying several rolls of gauze in his arms. 

“Oh,” said the vet. “It’s you.”

“So you know who I am, then?” Porthos said, trying to keep his indignant anger charged, but seeing the man was like a sucker punch to the stomach. Obviously he knew that he was young (after all, the town hadn’t been quiet about their slightly disapproving comments about how young the new man was and did they really trust their animals with him?). That said, he hadn’t counted on how handsome he was -- not to mention how very, very _blue_ his eyes were. Porthos lifted his chin and stayed strong, reminding himself of the scar on his eye and the gouged bit on his arm that still ached every time he woke or even so much as thought about it. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“I think I have to say that this town is entirely too chatty and intrude far too much on one another’s business. Especially when you’ve lived in Paris and are used to the careful ignorance of your neighbours,” he said. “Shall I introduce myself or would you like to yell at me some more?”

“Why ‘or’?” Porthos replied. “Let’s have both.” He stuck out his good arm, offering the hand out to shake. “I’m Porthos du Vallon. I’ve also brought my hospital bills on the off-chance you want to cover what my plan doesn’t.”

“Olivier d’Athos de la Fère,” came the reply. “Yes, it’s as pretentious as it sounds. I usually go by Athos,” he said. “And what my cat has done to you reached my ears days ago. There was a particular group from the restaurant down the street that I worried might try and break my kneecaps.”

“That’d be Serge, then,” Porthos said with a big grin. “I give him a discount on flowers so he can make up with his wife every time they argue, which usually turns out to be once a month. He likes me for it.”

“Everyone in this town seems to like you,” was Athos’ calm observation, echoing with approval and mild interest.

Porthos tried not to flush at the praise, still caught up in how blue Athos’ eyes were. The man’s lips were quirked upwards beneath the bristles of his barely-there beard, but it was the eyes that seemed to capture and stun Porthos in their path. 

“I don’t know if paying your hospital fees is something I can do, but what I can offer is a drink at the local bar. I’ve been enjoying the hospitality there since I moved to town.”

The local bar was dingy, dark, dusty, and if you really wanted, you could instigate a bar brawl with no more than a look given wrong. It was the only drinking spot in town and tended to attract the casual drinkers, the barflies, but also the various other groups in town who wanted a quick nip. Those usually ranged from the local teachers to the grandmothers who liked their tea with a bit of a kick and even included Anne and Louis if they were feeling indulgent and didn’t feel like drinking in their own kitchen. Porthos was of the opinion that they had the best nachos in town, so he often spent the nights he worked too late pleading with Dijon to send him up a wrapped platter of food towards the Fleur de Lys. 

One drink in exchange for physical and acute mental suffering seemed a bit cheap, but maybe Porthos could use his powers of charm and persuasion (not actual ones, he’d never possessed those) to talk Athos into a few rounds. Beyond the actual benefit of the drinks, Porthos was quickly realizing he wanted to spend a little more time with the handsome vet.

“You’re okay to close up here?”

“Vet’s office in a small town. If anyone needs me, I’m sure they’ll come check the six open establishments to find me.”

Porthos gave Athos a dubious look. “You sound like you really love the place,” he noted sarcastically. “Why’d you take the job if you hate Dammarie so much?”

“It’s a stone’s throw from Paris and a paying job,” Athos said.

Except he was lying. Porthos could always tell when someone was lying because there was a hint of a quiver in their words, like they were wobbling because they weren’t firm with the truth. Whatever brought Athos here wasn’t the pay, wasn’t the job, and definitely wasn’t the location. Of course, the chances of Porthos getting the truth out of him was a fairly long shot and it wasn’t like he cared, did he?

It was those blue eyes, Porthos thought. It was like they’d cast some sort of intoxicating spell on him. Even his earlier anger had washed away and Porthos forgot why he’d come storming in here. Sure, he remembered the cat and his wounds, but it wasn’t like Athos could have controlled the thing. Porthos was always saying how cats never obeyed their masters, so what chance did Athos have of controlling that wild thing.

“Where’d you get that animal anyway?” He could still be irritated at the cat, though, and thinking about it again brought him back to his purpose here, if not the emotion.

“Vincent?” Athos asked. “I picked him up in Paris wandering through the alleys by my apartment. He was malnourished, underfed, and looked abused. For the most part, he’s a perfectly behaved cat, but I suppose something you did set him off.”

Porthos bristled at the accusation. “I was trying to pet him and offer him something to eat.”

That seemed to catch Athos off guard, who seemed to be expecting Porthos to say that he hated cats or that he’d tried to shoo him away. It was like the sheer notion of affection hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“Well, then, bad kitty,” Athos deadpanned, causing Porthos to snort with unexpected laughter for the remark. “Come on. I think I probably owe you several drinks and food, if you were only trying to show Vincent a bit of affection and he repaid you with those injuries. Must be like his owner,” he said. “Shy about letting other people in, after having a rough go of it.”

The information was unexpected and made Porthos feel sympathetic for whatever in Athos’ past had caused him to feel like he could bond with a cat like that. Porthos felt himself nodding before he had even verbally agreed to the date -- no, he reminded himself, not a _date_. Despite the fact that he found Athos incredibly attractive, the man possessed a demon cat that had hurt Porthos and he was still very mad (right? He was mad, wasn’t he? It was getting harder to remember, in the path of those blue eyes).

Still, if this encounter eventually lead to a date, that wouldn’t be so terrible.

He waited at the door for Athos to grab his coat, heart in his throat as Athos reached out to move his steady fingers over the thin string connecting the patch. “You look like a rather handsome pirate,” he said, an energy in his presence that pulled Porthos in like the force of the tide, clasping him up and encouraging him to step even closer. “Does it hurt very much?”

Wordlessly, Porthos felt himself nodding his head. He prayed that Athos didn’t feel inclined to stop touching him and got his wish when that hand gently landed on the bandage on his arm with an edge of tentative concern, and Porthos took notice for the first time of the lack of space between them.

“And this? Does this hurt?”

Porthos nodded again, heart beating madly. Being attracted to two people wasn’t new to him -- his past with Flea and Charon had shown him that he worked best when there were multiple people in a relationship with him for him to lavish his love and affection upon -- but to meet Athos so quickly on the heels of Aramis and to have all three points of the triangle not know each other felt odd and strange to him. He didn’t feel like he was cheating on anyone, but he also couldn’t tell if his loneliness was driving him to try and forge connections out of whatever was at his disposal, regardless of whether the connection would burn bright and strong.

Though, with the way Athos touched the bandages, Porthos was forced to reconsider whether this was actually convenience or whether he was just finally meeting people who he felt he had a real, honest connection with. 

“I greatly apologize, then, for any ill will my cat showed you,” Athos murmured his grave apology as his eyes flickered lower and skimmed over Porthos’ mouth, tongue darting out to the corner of his own for the briefest of moments. 

What Porthos thought might have turned into an even closer moment ended as Athos stepped away and wrapped his light blue scarf around his neck, tugging on his sweater. The weather outside was still perfectly nice, but Athos dressed as if he was preparing himself for a brisk fall day. Porthos raised his brow pointedly as Athos wrapped the scarf twice around his neck. 

“I get cold easily,” Athos replied, not even needing a query from Porthos. “Come on, let’s get a drink and you can tell me if you approach all animals in the street the way you did mine.”

“Where is he?” Porthos asked, trying not to sound too worried. He didn’t feel like he was ready for round two. “Not lurking around here or anything? Maybe he’s on a leash?”

“Don’t worry. I let him roam outside. He seems to take to it, usually he stays in the hayloft at my place. Gallagher’s barn affords a great number of hiding places for a cat. It’s not half bad for a person, either,” Athos said, opening the door for Porthos and gesturing for him to lead the way. The chime of the door which had annoyed him so greatly when he’d stormed in now barely resonated in the back of his mind. Belatedly, Porthos yanked off the eyepatch because even though he knew he was still meant to be wearing it, he didn’t want to go to the bar looking like he did.

“When’d you move in?” he asked, once he’d stuffed the offending item in his pocket.

“Three weeks ago,” Athos said, fidgeting with his scarf as he fell into step at Porthos’ side. Porthos didn’t like not being able to look at him and was careful to position himself so that every time he glanced up, he got a good view of Athos’ handsome profile. 

Maybe he was more desperate than he thought if, in the course of a week, he was experiencing such unexpectedly warm and fond feelings twice over and not with the same person. He supposed it couldn’t hurt for Porthos to keep his options open. He still hadn’t run into Aramis in town and he had no idea whether the man even swung that way. With Athos, at least there’d been that moment in the office where Porthos had been so convinced he’d been about to be kissed by those soft-looking lips.

“Dammarie is...unique,” Athos settled on the word with great emphasis. “Treville made it sound very quaint and charming in his description and while I’ve come to appreciate it, it’s certainly not what I’m used to.”

“Which is…?”

“City lights, noise, awful and rude people,” Athos said, walking them slowly down the quiet town streets towards the pub. “And before that, a looming empty house in the countryside with no one around but the nosy neighbours. It seems I’ve gone back to my childhood.”

“There must be something about this place you don’t find stifling and nosy,” Porthos protested, holding deep affection for Dammarie given that he’d grown up here and only knew this place. It might have been a bit small and the people might be judgmental and fearful, but there was charm and a loveliness to the town that he didn’t think he’d invented just to convince himself it wasn’t so bad.

Athos glanced sideways, sizing Porthos up, and offering a graceful shrug. “Time will tell,” he said, opening the door to the pub and letting Porthos in first. 

Porthos took a table in the back corner away from the door’s draft -- cautious and conscientious of Athos now that he’d mentioned how easily he got cold. He ordered them a few beers, making sure to take a little bit of advantage by buying the imports and not just the cheap stuff he usually drank when he visited. Dijon muttered a ‘big spender’ under his breath, but brought the white ales to the table and brightened considerably when he was given his tip from Athos -- which was more than generous, from Porthos’ perspective.

“Do you always tip him like that? I think you might have earned an admirer, if you do,” Porthos said, wondering exactly how much money the man had. He was sure the town gossip would be quick to let him know if he bothered to poke around, of course, but that felt a bit seedy.

“At least now he’ll give us our privacy,” Athos said, draping his coat over his chair. “So, Porthos du Vallon. From what the affronted town has let me know, you’re their very favourite florist, and were very upset to hear that I’d caused you injury.”

“Am I? I’m not sure that’s much to brag about,” Porthos pointed out, sipping the ale. “Most towns don’t exactly get much competition when it comes to florists.”

“Ah, but what about the flowers at the petrol station? Isn’t that competition?”

“Mine,” Porthos said with a smug grin. “Same as the potted plants in the local stores and a few of the gardens around. I was taught not to be idle, as a boy, and I’m sort of left not knowing how to relax.”

“That’s a shame,” Athos murmured behind his glass with another one of those looks that flicked over Porthos’ body. Porthos endured it without his cheeks flushing hotly, which he counted as a win. Athos opened his mouth to say something else, but his attention was dragged away by movement at the door. “Aramis!” he called out warmly, forcing Porthos’ heart into double-time. While d’Artagnan had been fairly clear that the man liked to spend time here, the likelihood of running into him so soon hadn’t even crossed his mind.

He turned in his seat and revelled in his first real glance at the man. He was clad in a lovely blue shirt that adorned his torso perfectly and a pair of well-fitted jeans above a pair of hiking boots that had a system of complicated zips and ties. His hair was effortlessly perfect, like he’d woken up like that. Aramis quickly abandoned his intended targeted seat at the bar for their little table in the back.

“He’s been good enough to give me the lay of the land of Dammarie since I moved here, being somewhat new himself,” said Athos. 

Porthos barely hear a word he said. For the second time that day, it felt like he was being pummelled with an onslaught of feelings he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. The blue of Athos’ eyes was bad enough, but now that he got a good look at Aramis for the first time, he was thrown off guard by the warmth of his smile and the agility of his fingers as they grasped a chair, and the way his hair curled around his ears in a way that looked so very soft to touch.

Porthos might be twenty years old and a slave to biology, but he was almost wishing it was just lust. He was currently struggling with the vice around his heart, flooding him with warmth as Aramis sat down with them.

“You two know each other?” he managed to get out. 

“Yes, we’ve…” Aramis trailed off as he stared at Porthos, as if seeing him for the first time. He leaned forcibly over the table and grasped Porthos’ chin in his hand, apparently never having been one to obey personal space. “Have you not been putting the salve on your stitches?”

Porthos tried to worm away (not because he wanted away from the touch, but he hated being manhandled). “Of course I have been! Three times a day!” He was privately grateful that Aramis hadn’t made a comment about Porthos not wearing his patch, but still didn’t want to endure the accusation that he wasn’t following orders.

Aramis frowned, settling back in his chair as he regarded them. “It should be more healed than that,” was all he said darkly, though his attention soon flitted elsewhere as he looked between Porthos and Athos, eyes lighting up. “It was _your_ cat,” he said, clapping his hands together with delight. “I know the thing is a touch grumpy, but I didn’t think it had assault in its bones.”

“Nor did I,” Athos mused calmly.

Porthos was still stuck on Athos and Aramis apparently knowing each other, which made his sudden attraction to the both feel a bit like his hopes were about to be dashed. The way they looked at each other with such confidence and camaraderie made him feel a bit left out and he mustered up a smile, reminding himself that it probably wasn’t those two men in particular he wanted; it was only that they were both terribly handsome and Porthos wasn’t blind. 

“I should go,” Porthos said, feeling suddenly out of place. Whatever hope he’d felt for something with both Athos and Aramis felt dashed, now, when placed in the middle. He wasn’t expecting the sudden flicker of disappointment on Aramis’ face or the sudden look of worry from Athos. When he rose to leave, Athos reached out to place a hand on his shoulder to push him back down. 

He gestured to the drink in front of him. “You haven’t finished your drink and I believe I owe you a few more and food.”

Porthos tried to push the awkwardness from his very being, settling back down between Athos and Aramis to try and make himself feel better -- and taking in the looks on their faces, he actually managed to do just that. True, he’d barely met them and hardly knew them, but he was enjoying basking in the warmth of being wanted. It had been a very long time since he felt like this and the whiplash going from worried about being a third wheel to knowing he was actually wanted.

He felt a bit of a shy smile coming on as he sipped at his drink, heart beating all the quicker as he noticed that Athos had yet to take his hand off of his shoulder. It also meant that Porthos was far less inclined to leave

“As I was saying,” Aramis said after clearing his throat, his gaze locked on Athos’ fingers on Porthos’ shoulder. “I’ve been giving Athos the lay of the land, given that I’m just as new as he is with the whole small town bit, but I have the helpful experience of having lived in it more recently than fifteen years ago. I believe we’ve met your foster mother once or twice. She comes around the hospital without any real ailment, but brings the loveliest lemon bars with her.”

She was probably there seeing if she could sneak any of their patients away and try and heal them herself, but Porthos deliberately didn’t mention that part, given that he didn’t want to give Anne a reputation for being a holistic nutjob.

“She made mention of her two adoptive sons, but never mentioned how handsome you were,” Aramis continued on, discarding such charming words as if they were given all the time and he didn’t think twice of remarking upon Porthos’ handsomeness, even though it made him flush in his cheeks and wonder at the level of flirting he was coping with. “Ah, and here comes the other…”

Porthos craned his neck and watched d’Artagnan enter the bar, greeting a few of the local townsfolk before wandering to the table to pluck at Porthos’ sleeve. “Anne needs you to…” He trailed off, his attention drifting from Aramis to Athos, then back, then around the table once again. When he finally turned his attention properly back to Porthos, it was with wide-eyed accusatory shock. “Porthos, why didn’t you tell me…”

Porthos clamped a hand over d’Artagnan’s mouth, knowing that there was no good that could come out of the mischievous gleam in his eye and the excitable tone he was taking on. He flashed an apologetic smile at the two men before he dragged d’Artagnan twenty feet away to the other side of the bar. 

Finally, he released d’Artagnan from his wriggling attempt to escape (wincing when he realized that in true younger sibling form, d’Artagnan had licked his hand). 

“You’re awful,” d’Artagnan complained. “Why didn’t you tell me your spell worked?”

Porthos had cast dozens of spells over his life and most of them had worked. If they didn’t, it was usually the wrong combination of herbs or his mispronounced Latin or Celtic. Right now, he had absolutely no idea what d’Artagnan was talking about.

“Your love spell! That’s them, isn’t it? I didn’t even realize when I met them individually, but seeing them here together makes me wonder how I could have ever missed it!”

“Have you been drinking?” Porthos asked. “Tell me you’re not high,” he growled.

“Cleft lip!” D’Artagnan accused. “Scar on the forehead! I remember these things. I wrote them down and I did up sketches so I could help you locate your true loves and I am telling you they are _sitting right there_. Porthos, open your eyes. Their hair, their eyes, those distinguishing marks you asked for. Not to mention, I saw you when I walked in and you looked completely bewitched.” Something else seemed to dawn on d’Artagnan and he snapped his fingers. “That was what you felt at the hospital. It was your own spell reverberating back at you.”

“Would you keep your voice down?” Porthos demanded heatedly, though the sound had carried enough that Aramis and Athos were both staring at them with perplexed worry. He hauled d’Artagnan a little closer to the door. “I don’t believe in that,” he argued once they had a little more distance.

“You should, your perfect men are sitting ten feet away from you.”

“And I’m pretty sure they’re already seeing each other,” he said, swallowing back the bitter pill of it. Even if he wanted to get in the middle of that, he knew that it would take time and devotion, and he was feeling a bit shy about the fact that even though they seemed to want him, he didn’t know if he believed in _love spells_ actually coming true. Worse, if they did, he felt a pang of guilt that he might have accidentally bent the fates to trick those two beautiful men into thinking they somehow had feelings for him. 

Was this what Anne had seen in her cards?

He shook his head to rid himself of the notion, regarding d’Artagnan as he tried to ground himself and figure out why he’d come after him in the first place. “What’s Anne need?”

“She wants to do a cleansing of the house, but needs you and I there with her to amp it up. Or maybe you’re there to wave sage because you’re a good half-head taller than the both of us,” he said, peering over his shoulder. “I can always grab a ladder and do it for you if you want to continue your date.”

“It’s not a date,” Porthos insisted. In fact, to prove that it wasn’t a date, he dug out a few Euros from his pocket and marched back to Athos to set them on the table. “Sorry,” he said, ignoring the wild pounding of his heart as he avoided looking into perfect blue eyes or at the defining scar on Aramis’ forehead. “Anne needs me back at the house. Thanks for the beer.”

“Porthos, wait…!” Aramis was trying to call after him, but Porthos was too determined to get out there before d’Artagnan’s wild theory could cloud his judgment. He could tell that d’Artagnan was disappointed with him as he met him just outside the pub, but Porthos couldn’t spend his time thinking about the notion that either of the two men at that table could have been some manifestation of a love spell he’d cast six years ago when he was fourteen. 

He forced himself to think about the house and not how disappointed he was to be walking away from the both of them.

“I’ll dig out the sketches that I did,” d’Artagnan said quietly. “They’re actually not half bad, after seeing the real thing.”

“Please, just stop,” Porthos said, but hope was fluttering and taking root in his heart in a way it hadn’t in years. He wanted to let it bloom, but feared that it would be stomped on and destroyed much in the way his love had been the last time he had been so ready to open up. “Can we please just go help Anne?”

He was so occupied with d’Artagnan’s teasing that he didn’t pay mind to why Anne would want to cleanse out the house now, of all times. He was right to worry about where the teasing was leading, though, because as soon as they arrived home, d’Artagnan bolted for Anne and began to fill her in on all the wonderfully embarrassing details of Porthos’ love life.

“So I’ll just prepare everything, then,” he said, resolved to playing a part in all of this madness while Anne and d’Artagnan participated in the town’s favourite hobby of gossip.

While he did, though, he couldn’t shake the mental thoughts that continued to nudge at his awareness as he let images of Athos and Aramis flood his mind. Love spell or not, there was nothing wrong with a few fantasies.


	4. To come in willing harmony

After they’d finished setting up new wards and cleansing the house, d’Artagnan had brought Porthos up to the attic so they could dig through the remnants of their childhood. There were old toys, scattered journals, torn books, and the assorted miscellany of a spoiled youth littering the attic, but none of it was what d’Artagnan was after until he’d tossed at least three trunks to create chaos, but also find his sought-after treasure. “I know I put them somewhere,” he’d muttered, finally finding what he was after when he dug up an old moleskin that was filled to the brim with sketches of Porthos’ perfect men.

At the time of d’Artagnan’s drawing, they were teenagers, but Porthos couldn’t deny that he could see the framework of the men he’d just met in the charcoal lines on the page. D’Artagnan had foisted the notebook on him insistently, telling him to keep it, _just in case_.

He’d brought them to work with him the next day, at his side now in the shop beside a cup of honey lemon tea. Porthos had opted to hide out at work to try and clear his mind rather than head out to find either of the men, though they were persistently on his mind. He was paging through the sketches, but to his right, he was using magic to sketch new profiles with charcoal on parchment, tracing their features from memory while letting his mind move the charcoal without his fingers needing to do any of the work.

Porthos wasn’t half bad with sketching, though he felt like he couldn’t do either of them the justice they deserved and definitely didn’t have half of d’Artagnan’s talent. He couldn’t exactly capture the mirth in Aramis’ smile or the depths of affection he’d seen hints of in Athos’ eyes. He definitely couldn’t get their hands right and it was hell trying to capture the slim, elegant lines of their necks.

He was ready to give up when the sound of a customer drew him from his revelry.

The charcoal pencil slammed down to the counter from mid-air, fearful that his distraction might have led to someone noticing what he’d been doing, but when he looked up, the customer was perusing some of the potted plants in the back.

“Are these all the same price?”

Not just any customer, then. Porthos let out a rush of breath in the guise of a soft laugh, peering up over the hedge of rose bushes to see Aramis in the back of the shop looking at the Queen’s Anne Lace in a pot (one of the varieties he kept as a loving tribute to Anne). He lifted up the pot and peered around the corner.

“And does it come with the pot?”

“You know you could probably find that in the wild,” Porthos found his voice in order to reply. “It grows like a weed.”

“Then why do you sell it?”

“Mostly as a tribute to Anne,” he admitted. “You did pick up the only pot of it.” He tucked away the growing number of sketches so that Aramis wouldn’t find them, rounding the counter to see if he could help him. The night’s rest had done well for him, and he was ready to face Aramis and Athos both freshly, without fear that the both of them might discover what Porthos had done as a child. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was ensnare anyone because of a silly love spell he’d chanted. While at the house, he’d resolved to start looking into a way to unbind it and that small matter of decision had helped clear his mind knowing that he wasn’t going to trap them permanently because of a childish mistake. “What are you after?”

“Something to woo someone with,” Aramis said decisively, his eyes roaming up and down Porthos’ face. While his words were deliberately chosen and charming, there was an edge of worry in his tone and he drifted closer to slide his thumb up Porthos’ scar slowly. “And in the process, I thought I might come check on my needlework. It should have healed better than this by now, Porthos. Are you _sure_ you’re putting the salve on?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he bit back, irritated that he apparently wasn’t trusted to take even the most basic of care of himself. “I don’t want the scarring to last.”

“Then that’s very strange,” Aramis murmured, picking up a bouquet of calla lilies as he brought them over to the counter. “You left in such a hurry last night, Athos and I were both disappointed,” he said, digging through his pockets for some change. “You see, it’s not every day that the man we’ve been dreaming about for six years suddenly turns up in one’s ER room and the other’s vet office in the course of a week.”

Busy finding change, Porthos nearly missed what Aramis said. 

He fumbled with the coins when it struck him, though, the guilt that he thought was gone beginning to bubble up again. “I’m sorry, but that’s ridiculous,” he said worriedly, trying to make it sound like he didn’t believe him at all. “You can’t have been dreaming about me,” he insisted, hoping he sounded somewhere near convincing.

“Athos doesn’t believe in fate. All that he thinks is he felt a strange pull to come here, but imagine our surprise when in the course of our conversation, we discovered we shared a mutual dream of a wisteria-covered house and a beautiful man that lived within its walls. I had that dream for the first time when I was seventeen years old and haven’t been able to shake it since.” Aramis leaned over to bundle up the lilies with a bow, happily turning them towards Porthos. “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful man.”

This was going too far. Porthos wanted nothing more than to bask in the attention and let it wash over him, but he knew that it was only being given to him because of a spell. More than that, it wasn’t like he could explain without giving away that he had magical powers and given that he still had nightmares of pyres in the centre of town, he wasn’t keen on telling Aramis that.

So instead of giving in to the attention and the thread of need that pushed him to, Porthos lifted his chin stubbornly. “You barely know me,” he said. “We met all of a week ago and you were patching me up. I’m not the person you dreamed about,” he lied, even though he knew it had to be him because the spell had likely threaded through the world and turned this perfectly wonderful man into someone who thought he was madly in love with a stranger.

In real life, Aramis would probably find him utterly boring and uninteresting, nothing that a man like Aramis would go for. It felt a bit strange to go from utterly not believing in the spell he had cast to thinking it held far, far too much power and it left Porthos feeling disoriented.

“Besides, what makes you think that means anything?” he continued, edging away from the counter to put more space between him and Aramis. “It’s only a dream.”

“Dreams have power,” Aramis said. “Meaning. If there’s one thing my mother has taught me, it’s that.”

Porthos didn’t touch the lilies on the counter and resolutely didn’t look at Aramis. “I need to lock up the shop,” he said.

“You only just opened.”

It was becoming clearer than ever that Porthos had to find some sort of counter-spell and escaping Aramis and his determination seemed to be the only way of that. He rounded the counter and nodded towards the door. “It’s an emergency,” he said.

“No phone calls, no messages, and no one’s come in after me. Is it a telepathic emergency?” Aramis joked innocently. 

The joke hit too close to home and Porthos started grabbing his things, ignoring the sketches and pressing his belongings into his satchel. The counterspell had to happen as soon as possible so he could release these men from whatever hold they thought he had on them. “Just close the door behind you, if you plan on lingering,” he said, patience growing short and terse as he stormed towards the path. 

He only made it four steps before he plowed straight into Athos.

_You’ve got to be kidding me_ , he thought, a dismal look of frustration crossing his face. “Tweedle Dee is that way,” he said with a jerked thumb over his shoulder. 

“I came looking for you to make sure you were all right,” Athos said calmly, though he glanced at Aramis and mouthed ‘Tweedle Dee’ with faint amusement. “You left in a rush yesterday before we could even properly say goodbye. Is everything fine at home?”

“Yes, it’s lovely, Anne just needed some help with cleaning hard to reach spaces,” Porthos replied, keeping his replies polite but brief. He didn’t want to put the both of them off completely, given that there might be the sliver of hope that once he broke the spell, they might still not want him to fuck off and might actually give him the time of day. If that was the case, he couldn’t burn all of his bridges. “And she’s just called me home.”

“She hasn’t, actually,” Aramis helpfully piped up from behind Porthos’ shoulder. “Again, unless it’s a telepathic cry for help. Athos, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was avoiding us.”

“You told him about the dreams, didn’t you?” Athos said, eyeing Porthos with an appraising eye that seemed to cut through him and dissect all of his secrets into easy to digest morsels. “Aramis, I thought we agreed they were just a coincidence and didn’t mean anything.” Porthos felt like Athos was the sane port in the storm and wondered if he could infect Aramis with that brand of thinking.

“No,” Aramis argued. “ _You_ agreed they were a coincidence and you aren’t sure Porthos is the one we dreamt about, but I can tell when you’re lying.”

Porthos eyed Aramis suspiciously, wondering if maybe he wasn’t a little magic after all.

He used their bickering as an excuse to slip away, picking up the pace as he walked as quickly as he could towards the house, knowing he only had limited time before they realized he’d snuck off. He was counting on at least a three minute head start, but he only got thirty seconds before they were at his heels.

“You know, normally it’s only animals that run away from me like this and it’s because I’m wielding a needle,” Athos called after him.

“Isn’t that funny? It’s people for me, but it’s also needles that makes them run.” Aramis was jovial and joking, as if the two of them weren’t chasing Porthos casually through town -- and _everyone_ was going to be talking about this tonight. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t end up in both the paper and on the news. “Porthos, would you please stop and talk to us? We don’t bite. Well, I bite,” he amended. “Usually it’s with permission and very much appreciated, though.”

Porthos stopped at the white gate of his home, staring from one to the other. They looked so hopeful and handsome standing there in the late morning light that it took every single ounce of his resolve not to cross the distance between them. He tried not to imagine wrapping Athos up in his arms to find out how much of a bristle he’d leave when kissing Porthos. He worked so hard not to think about Aramis clasping onto his hips from behind and kissing down his neck. He might have cast the spell outwards into the world, but it felt like it’d descended over his own mind, clouding his better judgment. 

“Whatever you’re feeling, it’s not real,” Porthos tried to get through to them as best as he could. He pressed the small of his back up against the gate door and felt like he needed to get away before anything could happen that he regretted. The truth was that if he let himself give over to the ebbing wave in his mind, he would gladly cross the distance between them and give in to the pulsing need to be touching either or both of those men.

Aramis regarded him with a disappointed look and if that wasn’t bad enough, Athos looked positively rife with displeasure.

“I don’t really like when people imply they know my feelings better than I do,” Aramis said darkly. “Athos, do you?”

Athos seemed more curious as to why Porthos would say such things and Porthos tried to ignore the ache in his heart when he picked out the sliver of pain in Athos’ expression that he was doing his best to stifle. While Porthos had only met the man recently, he could feel the emotional energy around him as clear as day. Athos kept himself welled up tightly like a steel drum and it made Porthos’ skin itch to feel the currents of what was lingering under the surface.

“Trust me,” Porthos said.

“Tell us why,” Athos challenged. “Tell us why you think our emotions, whatever they may be, are invalid and then we can make our decision as to whether we should take your word for it.”

Porthos furrowed his brow, caught between a rock and a hard place. He absolutely couldn’t stand there and give away all of his secrets, especially when he felt worried that they would judge him and think wrong of him. Worse, if he told them about the spell he had cast, would they hate him for taking away their free will? 

He leaned even harder against the gate and swallowed back his fear. “Give me a few hours,” he said, allowing himself a stay of execution. “I’ll come meet you at the bar later and then, I’ll explain.” When he had undone whatever hung in the air between them and made sure they both had their right minds and free will about them, then he would explain. 

Aramis didn’t seem convinced. He seemed like he was seconds away from storming inside the house and demanding a full explanation, but Porthos breathed relief for Athos’ presence. He seemed to sense that there was something that Porthos needed to do. He wrapped his hand over Aramis’ elbow to gently tug him away from Porthos -- the both of them had been gravitating closer so slowly that Porthos didn’t even notice until he realized he could smell Athos’ cologne and whatever soap that Aramis used. 

“Two hours,” Athos said. “Be punctual.”

Porthos raised a brow, asking silently whether he had just been given a _command_ to appear on time. “I’ll be there when I’m there,” he replied gruffly, unwilling to admit that he would be there at two hours on the dot, exactly, if not sooner. He knew that he didn’t owe the both of them anything, but the thought of upsetting them sat nastily in Porthos’ stomach. 

He escaped before another moment passed, too worried that if he lingered any longer, he’d lose his resolve. He actually ran the last few steps, breathing out deeply when he made it inside the house and managed to get the door closed behind him. He stared up at the ceiling and hoped he didn’t look as miserable as he felt, but soon Anne was there rubbing his back and she only ever did that when he looked like he needed comfort.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ve known you were coming since this morning.”

_Telepathic, indeed_ , he thought with amusement and leaned a little harder into her touch.

He found that she’d set out the tea, but also the whiskey. Normally, he might chastise her for the early hour of drinking, but today he really felt like he needed it. He sank down into the waiting chair, noticing that she had brought several books out from the archives and they sat open with their parchment yellowing and withering. Porthos could see several old languages (Latin, Celtic, Old English) adorning the pages and he turned them towards him so he could read it.

Each and every single one was about love spells. 

He glanced up warily and felt like a little boy again -- more the four year old Anne had discovered on the streets of Paris working spells on day-old bread to make it fresh than the twenty year old adult he was. She’d known he’d cast this spell, so it wasn’t that he was worried about the icy anger that she could wield when she didn’t like how they’d been using their magic. Still, he was worried that she might be about to give him a chat about magic and their responsibility to wield it practically and living with the consequences.

While he was looking at the books, she was dropping sugarcubes and honey into his tea, dousing a liberal amount of whiskey in before she passed over the china teacup, sipping at hers in a dainty manner and not reacting at all for the burn of the alcohol. “I think it’s time you and I _the talk_.”

“Pretty sure Louis covered that when I was thirteen,” Porthos replied. It had been the most awkward thirty minutes of his life given that gossip had already taught most of what he needed to know and Louis wasn’t exactly very good with uncomfortable topics. Besides that, there had been _puppets_. 

She gave him a withering look. “The talk about love spells. D’Artagnan seemed to understand it, so I suppose I assumed that you would, too. I was right when I drew the cards, wasn’t I?” she boasted, flipping through the pages until she found _the spell_ , the one they’d used. The guilt he’d been feeling earlier felt like it tripled now that he had to face the reality of what he’d done. “Porthos, don’t look like that,” she chided softly, rubbing her hand up and down his arm. “You break my heart when you do.”

“What am I supposed to feel?” he asked, rubbing his cheek as he turned away to avoid letting her see how miserable he felt at having somehow summoned these two men both into existing in his life and for forcing them to love him. “They’re handsome, charming, intelligent, and funny. I essentially roofied them into thinking they wanted me instead of letting them make their own choices.”

“That’s not what this spell does,” she replied firmly. “You need to stop thinking of this like incredibly strong tequila and think of it more like a homing beacon.”

He looked up, confused, because he couldn’t understand how that could possibly be.

“The way they were acting, though,” he protested. “They kept smiling, leaning into me, touching me. They acted like…” He trailed off and began to feel like a bit of an idiot. He’d grown up in town with Flea and Charon and their relationship had been a slow progression, blooming into what it did. He’d never really had to cope with meeting people he clicked with for the first time and finding a romantic and physical attraction there.

Anne seemed to pick up on his epiphany and smiled so beautifully and brightly. “What you cast was sort of like a revealing spell. It searched the world for what you asked for and gave you dreams about them and them dreams about you. It also created a bit of a pull in them. It might explain why they ended up in Dammarie rather than anywhere else, but it was still their choice. Porthos, you didn’t do anything to them. They honestly like you,” she promised.

“It just seems too good to be true,” he protested, voice thick with worry that he’d made a mess of all of it.

“Only you could think that,” she said fondly. “You run your own business and you’re clever, intelligent, and so sweet you make my heart ache for you. I’ve never met anyone that cares more than you do and besides that, you’re utterly the most handsome thing I’ve ever seen. They like you, Porthos. As they should,” she added with an imperious nod, lifting her chin up. 

He ran his hand over the ageing book and tried to take caution before letting his hope and excitement run rampant. Magic might not be clouding both their judgment, but that didn’t mean that finding out they weren’t being controlled meant everything was going to go perfectly. It still came down to the normal worries -- after all, Porthos was definitely interested in both of them and he didn’t know if they wanted a poly relationship. 

He didn’t even know if they would want _him_ beyond something casual. For that matter, did he even know if he wanted more? _Yes_ , whispered the long-suffering voice in his head that was already tired of coping with Porthos’ doubts about them. After all, he had essentially taken a megaphone and shouted exactly what he wanted into the world.

The world had been good enough to hand them over and here he was, doubting it. 

“I’m supposed to be meeting them at the bar in a while,” he said, staring up at Anne warily. While he’d always suspected she knew that his heart wanted more than just one person, he sort of had to wonder whether she’d known from the start. “You’re sure I didn’t do anything to them? They’re not acting the way they are because of a spell?” He allowed some of his wariness to slowly rise to the surface. “Only, I cast the spell for what I wanted. Who says they want me back?”

“That’s where conversation comes in. Dating,” Anne suggested. Porthos took a healthy swig of his spiked tea and tried to rouse his courage. “Please make me one promise.”

“Anything,” he vowed.

“Keep your heart open. Act as if it’s never been broken before. I want you so happy, my Porthos,” Anne said fondly, reaching out to cup his cheek. “And if you can find it twiceover, then it will still only be a fraction of what you deserve, but at least it’s better than one. I’ll talk Louis around from the inevitable shock. I think he was expecting you to give him a lovely wife and grandchildren.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Still, there’s d’Artagnan for that.”

“Or you could take in new kids?” Porthos suggested. Now that they were on the topic, he felt like it was finally the opportunity to pry a little deeper. “How come you didn’t bring in anyone after us?”

“We didn’t feel like the conditions were right,” she said, flexing her fingers in her hands as she cast her gaze to the side. 

She was _lying_. No, that wasn’t right. Porthos could detect the hint of truth in her words, but she was skirting it with lies as to what the real reason was. 

“Are you ever going to tell d’Artagnan and I what’s going on?” he asked, when his teacup was empty and they’d run out of long silence to fill the gap between them. It was a quiet question that didn’t demand an answer, though he tried to lace his words with the heavy emphasis that he both wanted to know and wanted to be able to help.

He hated being kept in the dark, especially when he had the feeling that something was happening and they were trying to protect him by not telling him. 

“In time,” Anne finally said, running her thumb around the rim of the cup. “Things are hazy,” she said slowly, picking her words very carefully. “Neither Louis or I are sure of what’s happening and we want to be cautious not to set things in motion that might become a self-fulfilled prophecy.” She reached across the table to take Porthos’ left hand in both of hers. “You should be worried about being happy and falling in love. Leave the fretting to us.”

“When it does clear up, you’ll tell me.” That wasn’t a question, not this time.

Anne nodded, her long gold earrings jangling with the motion. “When it comes to the right time.” She turned her wrist to glance at the watch. “Look at that. You can go meet them an hour earlier than they expected.”

As usual, Anne’s omniscience had a tendency to unnerve Porthos, though it did come in handy. He lifted her palm to press a fond kiss to her hand, fussing with his hair as he ducked to check it in some of the stained glass in the room.

“You look fine,” she promised him, hiding her smile behind her hand. “Though, if you’re going on a date, maybe change into that lovely dark green shirt that hugs your chest exceptionally well? Or that black t-shirt and the ripped jeans. I’ve laid all the options out on your bed.”

“You saw this?”

“Not a bit,” she said. “D’Artagnan told me how taken you were with them and I know what makes you look best.”

He shot her a grateful look tempered with mild exasperation before he headed upstairs to throw on the v-neck dark green sweater over the t-shirt and jeans as suggested, affixing his emerald and gold stud earring to his ear. He ducked to check himself in the mirror, but realized that was a mistake when it just had him focusing on the scar that refused to go away. The one on his forearm was still taking its sweet time to heal, but Constance had read to him that it would be expected to need longer, given the depth.

He rubbed his fingers over that gouge on his arm, wincing at the dark lance of pain he felt for it. Shaking off his vanity, Porthos made sure his beard was in decent shape (he’d begun growing it not for any fashionable reason but because it took less time out of his morning routine) and grabbed his wallet.

“Have fun!” Anne called. 

“Make sure they pay for a drink or two before you put out,” Louis added from the depths of the house (his echoing voice made it sound like he was coming from the basement). 

“At least three drinks,” added Anne as Porthos stifled his laughter when he left the house, tucking his keys into his pocket. 

The walk to the pub was good for him. The fresh air cleared his mind and thinking about Anne and Louis’ meddling kept him from getting overly excited about the fact that whatever chemistry he’d been feeling was absolutely and completely without interference. By the time he arrived, he wasn’t even anxious about the meeting, though he was definitely early.

It looked like he wasn’t the only one. 

Aramis and Athos were already settled at the same small table they’d taken the other day. Porthos found them in the midst of an earnest conversation that ground to a halt as soon as Athos nudged Aramis with his elbow and pointed towards the door. He stopped by Dijon to get a bottle of red wine and continued onwards, tugging his sweater off and giving both of them a bit of a show with the flex and pull of his shoulders.

It seemed to do the trick, given the parched look on Aramis’ face and the appreciative gleam in Athos’ eyes when Porthos sat down. 

“Are you ready to actually have a conversation with us?” Athos asks, pouring himself a glass of wine. “Or do we only get another three minutes with you before you rush off for home again?”

“No,” he said firmly, ready to face this head on and for the opportunity that it was. “No, I’m here,” he promised, turning to look at Aramis and sharing the same hopeful smile he’d given Athos. “And I sort of want to start this over. Shouting at you about your cat and having you mend me up isn’t exactly the best of introductions. So, let’s try this instead. I’m Porthos du Vallon. I run the local flower shop. And you are?” he asked of the both of them.

“Olivier d’Athos de la Fère,” Athos drawled.

“Aramis d’Herblay, but I am not ashamed to say I was born with another name and shed it nearly on sight,” he confided, leaning in as he drummed his nails on the table. “That said, if you buy me another bottle, I might be inclined to share it.”

“It’s René,” Athos said evenly, which forced a moue of discontent onto Aramis’ lips. “He acts very secretive about it, but his work badge has it written underneath his picture. He was bound to find out,” he pointed out. “Don’t sulk so.”

“And where are you both from?” Porthos asked. He wanted to take the opportunity to learn about their stories and to craft their history in his mind. He wanted to think about them as three-dimensional people instead of just sketches on a piece of paper from half a decade ago. “I know that you’re from a little town outside Paris,” he said to Athos. “And you’re from Chartres?” he confirmed with Aramis.

The both of them nodded. 

“Should I have brought my CV?” Athos drawled. “I didn’t realize having a drink with you was going to turn into an interview so quickly.”

“I like to know the people I go out drinking with,” Porthos said, pointedly not saying the word ‘date’, but thinking it very much the same. “Besides, if either of you are hiding some big dark secret in your past, I generally like to know around the first d...rink.” That one was very nearly ‘date’ and mainly because he was so focused on his own big dark secret that wasn’t exactly in his past. 

It wasn’t wrong, was it? It wasn’t like d’Artagnan had let Constance know about his magic. 

After all, no matter how open-minded someone vowed they were, things always got a bit dodgy when they found out they were with a witch, because their mind immediately turned to the worries of whether they had used any magic on them or whether they could -- even Porthos had those fears, stupidly enough. Look at how he’d spent the last day worried that he had somehow unfairly coerced Athos and Aramis into this.

“The only skeleton I have in my closet is one I don’t feel comfortable disclosing so early, no matter how handsome my co-drinkers are,” Aramis said, a look in his eye that challenged either Athos or Porthos to take him up on that.

“So what if maybe I asked you, both of you, to dinner?” Porthos suggested.

He felt like his heart might actually burst out of his chest for the pace of it, so worried that he had overstepped a boundary too soon or had misinterpreted some of the signals he felt like he’d been getting. He wanted so very badly to think that the three of them could at least _try_ and he was too nervous to even lift his head and gauge the mood between the two of them.

He was deep in his own thoughts to the point that it took a firm hand wrapped around his to get his attention. Looking up, it was Athos giving him a light squeeze, nodding towards Aramis who was beaming like the cat that got the cream.

“And to think I’ve been dying to ask you the same question. Of course, I didn’t plan on having Athos there, though I hardly mind,” Aramis admitted, peering towards Athos. “I never asked. Are you a possessive lover?”

“I’ve never been given a chance to find out,” Athos confessed. “I am, however, willing to try. Is that what you want, Porthos? You want all three of us to go to dinner at once?”

Porthos was a bit caught up in the mental image of Aramis and Athos together. His brain had always been filled with a vivid imagination and now it began to picture Aramis naked and writhing under Athos, while the other man gripped his hair and pinned him down while sucking red kisses into his neck. Flush with the images that kept playing in the back of his mind, Porthos found himself nodding sheepishly, like he still felt guilty for admitting what he wanted. If he didn’t try with both of them _together_ , he felt like he would always regret it. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, trying to rub the red out of his cheeks. “My last relationship was three people. I know it’s not conventional or anything and maybe it won’t work out for us,” Porthos said, “but I’d like to try if the both of you are willing.”

Aramis grinned wickedly and saluted the both of them with his glass. “Go on a date with the two most gorgeous men in Dammarie? With pleasure,” he vowed. 

“I’m willing to keep my mind open,” Athos said carefully, like he was weighing whether or not he was ready to chance his heart like that. “On the provision that you know I’ve never done it like this before, not with three people. I always thought I’d be a one woman man. And yet, here I am with two gorgeous men, so what do I know?”

“I’ve always been happy to love whomever comes along,” Aramis assured. “We’ll have dinner, the three of us. It’ll be a _proper_ second date.”

It seemed like it was almost too easy, but as they fell into steady conversation, Porthos felt the lull of it calm him down as he repeated his oft-murmured mantra to himself. He hadn’t forced them into this, he wasn’t going to take them for granted, and he was going to do right by them. They’d start with dinner and see where they got from there.

Some days, Porthos suspected dating was actually the most frightening thing out there and not the dark things that lurked in the shadows. After all, they could only harm and kill you, but dating could force you to perpetual anxiety and potential humiliation on a consistent basis.

Though, looking at the bright smile Aramis shot him and the steady air of assurance Athos gave off, Porthos didn’t think they were destined for all that bad a time.

He lost himself in the drink and the warmth of their stories and found himself excited to spend as much time as he possibly could with both these men, even if there was no guarantee that anything was going to work out. It was long past time to risk his heart again.


	5. By turn of one, the curse is done

“Porthos?”

Someone was calling his name from far, far away. He was in the hedge maze by the house and it didn’t even occur to Porthos that this couldn’t be real because they didn’t have a hedge maze anywhere on the grounds. Yet, here he was lost within its’ green walls. The fog was back in the air, thick and gray. This time, it felt like it was choking him until he had to struggle for breath. He gasped and hiccupped as he tried to pull air into his lungs, but none came until he felt the strangest sensation of being so light headed that he was going to pass out.

“Porthos,” that sly, warm voice came again. “Lead the way, Porthos.” 

Something about the maze was familiar, but he couldn’t sense it. Every once in a while, there would be flashes in the dream and the hedges became walls adorned with paintings and familiar heirlooms and Porthos stumbled through as if he knew the way. His sense of direction inevitably failed him each time, resulting in him losing the way and hitting a dead end. The voice kept summoning him and he felt slavish to it, like a zombie trudging towards the sound. 

He continued on, even as the world shook around him and the voice began to change pitch. It went from being seductively low (that woman’s voice threading through the fog and summoning him) to something demanding and sharp. 

“Porthos, wake up!” He could hear the difference now and recognized the new voice calling him; Anne’s voice sharp and staccato. 

He struggled towards Anne’s voice, pushing through the fog in the direction of the clearness, drawn on by how every additional step he took brought with it a new clarity and a feeling like he was banishing out the darkness from his heart.

Anne’s voice was soon joined by two others -- Aramis and Athos, coaxing him on through the nightmare landscape to something brighter and better. Porthos lunged forward, finally bursting out of the hedge maze.

That was when he blinked awake, remembering now that he had been napping on the chaise. He was able to shake off the nightmare fairly quickly, but still clutched onto the remnants of the unpleasant dream. The trouble was that he couldn’t figure out what had happened beyond knowing it hadn’t been very pleasant. He tried to shake off the lethargy, feeling it down to his bones as he roused himself into a sitting position and came face to face with Anne, who was pressing different bowties up against his neck.

“What’s happening?” he murmured, voice heavy with sleep. “What are you doing?”

“You’re going to be late for your date, Porthos,” Anne said. “I could barely wake you. Are you sure you’re sleeping well enough?”

“Stop mother-henning me,” Porthos murmured half-heartedly, not really upset with the care she was showing him. After all, it wasn’t like he’d had it for the first few years growing up, so to have Anne show this kind of affection constantly was something he ought to embrace and not push away. He reached out to grasp the black bowtie, draping it over his shoulder. “Where do you think we’re going? You’re dressing me like I should be ready for a wedding.”

“Aramis phoned and said you would be having dinner at Athos’ farmhouse and that Aramis is cooking,” she said, apparently acting as his fashion consultant, personal assistant, and mother in one. He lurched a little more vertically and found that she had also draped a pair of black slacks and a jacket over him, which gave him the impression that had he not woken up, she would have forcibly dressed him or used him as a coatrack. 

His balance was slightly off as he rose to a sitting position, rubbing at his eyes. He was having real trouble shaking the nap and he looked to Anne pleadingly. “Coffee?” he begged. 

“You’ll be up all night,” she warned with a private little smile that had mischief playing at the corners of her lips. 

“Not likely. I can barely move,” he murmured, feeling like he’d aged twenty years in a single hour. He raised his palm to his forehead, but there was no fever. Maybe it was just the exhaustion of too many weeks of work catching up with him. This could just be the sign that he needed to take a break before he ran himself into the ground at the ripe old age of twenty.

Anne kept an eye on him, even as she made it to the brewer to put on a pot of coffee. “Are you feeling all right, darling?” she asked softly. “You’re not coming down ill with something. I’d hate for the three of you to have to reschedule. I could hear the excitement in Aramis’ voice,” she praised. “He even said that Athos had gone out to purchase a new sweater and scarf to impress you.”

It wasn’t necessary, thought Porthos, as he clasped the clothes in his hands and began to make his way upstairs to start changing. Athos didn’t need any new clothes to impress him -- and the truth was that the less clothes both men had on, the more chance they had of impressing him. He took a quick shower and managed not to fall asleep against the tiles, though his eyes kept falling shut every time he stopped moving. He touched up his beard, though didn’t shave, and pressed cologne to his neck as he changed into the crisp white shirt over the black slacks and the jacket.

He left the bowtie aside, though, choosing instead to keep his shirt unbuttoned three down before doing one back up when he thought of the unimpressed look Anne was due to give him if he wandered downstairs looking like he was just finished on the stage of a strip club. He fixed his stud earring into the pierced ear, draped his St. Jude’s pendant over his neck, and made his way downstairs feeling a lot better than before. He was awake, alert, and starting to get anxiously excited. 

On his way down, he stopped in the mud room to check that the flowers he’d prepared for the date were still in fine shape. Aramis’ bouquet was filled with warm purples and yellows -- daisies and violets, intermixed with roses. For Athos, blues and whites with the bluestar and a bit of wild clematis to go with the carnations and the roses. He touched the wrapped stems protectively before continuing on his way to the kitchen, slumping down in a chair and being grateful for the warm cup of coffee waiting for him.

“Are you nervous?” Anne asked, sitting opposite him with her own mug. 

Porthos imagined she’d be up all night, too, but didn’t exactly choose to follow his line of thought to where that inevitably led. The last thing he needed was mental images of what Anne and Louis got up to when he and d’Artagnan weren’t around (though he suspected it had to do with a lot of alcohol and some old rituals that you heard about as some of urban legend) but he shook the image as soon as he possibly could. There were just some things you didn’t want to imagine your parents doing.

“Of course I’m nervous,” he agreed, feeling like something would have been wrong if he wasn’t. Aramis and Athos both seemed too good to be true, in the way that he’d actually thought a love spell had crafted them from nothing, but it turned out they were just two honestly decent, attractive men and Porthos _wanted_ them. “It’s a bit strange navigating it from this end. I’m used to having years of friendship beneath my belt. What do you do when you’re starting from scratch?”

“You learn about each other a little more with every day,” Anne advised. “You learn that there will be highs and lows, that things are never easy and they shouldn’t be. Without a touch of struggle, it wouldn’t be half as clear how wonderful the joys are if you don’t also know how low you can feel. If you’re lucky, things work out and you can begin to fill in the gaps of your life in the manner you like. You add to it, put the things most important on top of the strong foundation you’ve created. And, if you’re lucky, there’s some very good intimacy in the middle.”

Thank god Anne was too put together and filled with decorum to call it fucking. Porthos didn’t want to show up to his first date with them beet red, unable to shake the embarrassment.

Stifling a yawn, Porthos finished up the coffee even though it was still a touch hot and burned as it made its way down his throat. He felt a bit selfish, but he didn’t even think about calling to cancel even though he had the suspicion that he was coming down with something after all. It just meant maybe he shouldn’t put out and initiate a long makeout session on the first date. While probably the respectful thing to do, it sort of left Porthos a touch disappointed.

He grabbed the keys to his truck and the bouquets, pressing a kiss to Anne’s cheek after he slid on his loafers. “Don’t read my cards tonight,” he warned, because the last thing he needed was Anne finding out how the date went before it was even over.

She crossed her heart and pressed her fingers to her lips to seal the vow with a kiss.

“I wouldn’t dare,” she promised. “Now, off you go. They’re both apparently awful cooks, so I imagine you might need to help them.”

He wanted to ask whether she knew that by divination or whether she’d already manufactured some meeting with them in town where she got to learn about their life history and their motivations and ambitions all by doing that thing where she listened really politely while the poor sucker had no idea they were pouring out their whole life story. He didn’t really want to think too hard about Athos and Aramis being subjected to Anne’s quiet charm, so he set off and spent the whole drive trying to stay awake.

Luckily, his nerves kicked in about a kilometre away from the house and that did it for him.

By the time he made it up the long, dusty drive to the farmhouse just on the outskirts of town, Porthos was still feeling the strange tired ebb in the back of his mind, but he also had the house and the men inside to focus on. Shoving his worries aside, he forced himself forward and grabbed the flowers in his hand as he made his way up to the porch, knocking firmly on the creaky front door, which trembled under his hand. 

From inside, he heard Aramis saying ‘oh, thank god!’ as if he was actually praising a deity. It soon became clear what when he opened the door and a thick puff of smoke followed. “Do you know, to get to be a nurse and a vet at this age, neither of us are very good at cooking at all,” he confessed, ushering Porthos inside. “Can you cook?”

“Yeah, I do it for the family,” he agreed. He supposed there’d always been someone else who did it for Anne and Louis (though the two of them weren’t terrible with soup and desserts), but they’d never cooked proper meals. He’d learned as a young child that unless he helped, they would have lived off of nothing but sweets and soups for his life. Even for a kid who liked sugar, the novelty of that faded away fairly soon when your stomach constantly ached from the sweetness.

He shifted the bouquets so he was presenting the right one to Aramis, knowing that the flowers were probably expected, but he still wanted to make sure he was holding up to expectations. 

They seemed to do the trick given the sheer look of delight that crossed Aramis’ face as he buried his face in the flowers for a long smell, plucking the other bouquet from Porthos’ hands despite his cry of protest. “I know these are for Athos, but I’m tempted to claim them both,” Aramis said, leading him inside. “Athos, Porthos is here and he’s brought flowers and cooking expertise.”

“Thank god,” muttered Athos, but with far less joy than Aramis’ had filled the words. He thrusted a wooden spoon into Porthos’ hands and suddenly he had been handed the dinner and the triage of fixing it while the other two men worked on getting the bouquets into water and pouring the wine. “It’s just a pasta sauce, but it keeps smoking.”

“What’s in it?” Porthos wondered and made a face when Athos listed the ingredients. He was quick to apologize after, but dumped the rest of it in the trash. The pasta was still salvageable and the bread hadn’t even gone in the oven. Luckily, Athos kept herbs around, so Porthos was able to start working a quick pesto sauce together, happily accepting the glass of wine that was offered to him by Athos.

“Do you always do this?” Porthos wondered as he gave the pesto a stir and began to coat the bread with a bit of garlic butter. “Lure men to your house and then force them to cook for you?”

“Don’t forget that you’ve brought us flowers,” Aramis said helpfully. 

“They’re very lovely,” Athos added, a touch quieter. “I can see why you’re everyone’s town favourite.”

Porthos coloured in his cheeks slightly, bowing his head down and trying to work with the unexpected praise that was being given. He’d never really done this so formally. He was used to ordering pizza and sitting around underdressed while watching horrible movies. Carefully, he chanced a look at both Aramis and Athos, privately collecting these moments before they could slip away. He memorized the way Aramis took such delicate care smelling the flowers and how Athos had gone to fetch paracetamol to keep them alive longer -- romantic and practical, complementing each other while Porthos offered hopefully something of a mix between the two.

“So that means there were other cooks before me?” he joked, raising his brow. “I see how it is.”

“As if we move that quickly,” Aramis chided. “The true question is whether you can do desserts,” Aramis said, foisting the second bouquet on Athos so that it could also be preserved. “We might be forced to keep you, if you can.” 

He could, but he didn’t have half the talent that Anne possessed (though he’d always suspected she amped up the ingredients using emotion in a way that Porthos could never figure out how to do with things like fowl and fish). 

“Is that all I’ve got to offer? Flowers and food?”

“Your extraordinary good looks don’t hurt,” Athos mused, sipping his wine.

“Nor does that wonderful smile and personality,” Aramis added. “I suppose we should be asking you why you’re still single. The right one’s never come along? Or ‘ones’, I should say? Are we the first time you’ve attempted a trio?”

Porthos shook his head. feeling a touch of a lump in his throat that always turned up when he had to think about Flea and Charon. “Two years ago, I got dumped,” he admitted. “Not for anything to do with me or anything I did,” he said, though he suspected that _what_ he was played an awfully big role in the decision. “It was just that our paths differed. There were three of us then, too, the two of us blokes and Flea,” he said. “They’re in Paris, now, studying. I’m just proof that you don’t meet your soulmate at fifteen.”

Though maybe you do cast spells to find them at fourteen.

“What about the both of you?” he asked, more curious to learn more about their lives. “Have you ever done this or anything like this before?” He wanted to learn about the actual people they were and not just the concepts of men that he’d built up in his mind. With a curious look to Athos, who shook his head ‘no’, he then looked to Aramis.

“Not like this,” he clarified. “Though I did have an open relationship with two friends. The three of us were a unit, but neither were we exclusive. One got too possessive, eventually, and the other strayed too far. It ended in a bit of a shambles,” Aramis confided as he swirled the red wine in his glass. “Then again, I don’t regret a single second of loving both Adele and Marsac.”

“Do you want this to be open?” Porthos asked next, somewhat worried that the proposed relationship wouldn’t be enough.

“Back then, I wanted it because I knew myself to still be searching for what felt right. At the time, I hadn’t found it, but I don’t feel that way any longer.” 

He caught Porthos’ gaze and while there was obviously a great deal of negotiating and talking left to do, it was a promising start. 

“My turn to ask something,” said Athos, ignoring that no one had actually managed to get a full answer out of him through the evening yet. “Why is it there hasn’t been anyone since your last relationship, Porthos?” Athos probed.

Porthos shook his head, stirring the sauce. “Truthfully, I think I’ve closed my heart off a touch. We’re a small town, so it wasn’t like there were plenty of options anyhow. You two are the first time I’ve even considered dating again and I’m glad I have. I know we’re still getting to know each other, but it feels comfortable. Am I the only one who feels it?”

“No, you’re not,” Aramis replied, seemingly speaking for both of them. “It feels right and easy, as if I already know that although there are bound to be tribulations, they’ll be very much worth it.”

“There’s definitely a spark of something,” Athos said, not as prone to romantic poetry, it seemed. “I’ve only ever felt that twice before and once was with the other man in this room.”

Aramis pressed his hand to his heart as if greatly touched and Porthos could feel his own heart thumping madly. “Not always so grumpy, is he?” Aramis praised happily.

“Apparently not,” Porthos murmured as his heart began to race even harder than before. He reached out for a bowl to spoon the pesto into, but as soon as his fingers had closed around the thing Porthos got lost in a sudden wave of dizziness that had him losing control of his grip and made the world around him go fuzzy and shocked with white. The bowl he’d been holding shattered on the tile floor and Porthos swayed unsteadily until he could reach out and grab hold of the nearest counter, feeling suddenly cloudy and slow.

Wildly, he searched the kitchen to find Aramis or Athos to ground him, but whatever fit of illness was assaulting him made it hard for him to even focus his gaze. Worse, the scars from the cat were aching, pounding away like they had just been freshly inflicted. Dimly, he could make out Athos shouting at him with worry, but he sounded so far away, as if they were underwater. Aramis had grabbed him and was helping him slide down to the ground, but Porthos could only pay attention to his racing heart and to the sluggishly awful feeling that something was terribly wrong.

“Porthos!” That was Aramis shouting at him, Athos crowding close behind him. He felt the sudden shock of something, which he realized had been a slap to the face but had felt dulled and like he’d barely felt it. Instinct nearly made him rear up and shove the both of them off him with magic, but his eyes widened when he realized what he’d almost done, but the guilt couldn’t even make it past the sudden lancing pain in his arm. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Aramis was saying, glancing to Athos. “Watch him. I’m going to fetch my things.”

“No,” Porthos replied, flailing out weakly. “You can’t do anything, none of it will help.”

The lethargy, the pain, the dizziness, and even the nightmares began to align and make sense. This wasn’t any mortal disease or regular injury striking him down. This had to be magical. His gaze slid to Athos, accusatory and wary, as he realized that this had all started when he’d been attacked by the cat.

The scars hadn’t been healing, he’d been having such horrible dreams, and above it all there had been that pervading sense that something was wrong with him. It had all started with the cat. None of this had begun until _Athos_ moved into town and brought his cat with him.

“You did this,” he said as he stared at Athos, frantic as the epiphany struck him. His voice was weighed down with horror as he tried to duck away from his touch when Athos reached out to cup his cheek with a palm. “Why would you do this to me?”

Athos shied away as if burned. “Porthos, I didn’t…”

“Back away, let him breathe,” Aramis crashed back into the room as Porthos tried to curl up on himself to try and stop the now stabbing pains that came steadily, like knives cutting him open. He let out a wild cry of sheer, tortured pain and knew that no matter what Aramis tried to give him, it wouldn’t work. He needed Anne, he needed Louis, d’Artagnan, he needed _home_ , and he wanted to be away from here because Athos had done this, Athos’ cat had cut him open and the scars had lingered, and now he felt like he was....

The shock of the realization nearly made him pass out. 

He was dying.

Porthos could feel his energy slowly slipping away from him. The wound was definitely magical and it didn’t make sense. How could Athos do this to him if he didn’t have a single hint of magic about him? The betrayal felt almost worse than the magical wound, which only served to echo against the physical pain he was feeling, like someone was lobbing an attack on him. 

How could it be Athos, though? The man was looming above him, worried, but he wasn’t drawing on old energies in the world, he wasn’t chanting, and he didn’t bear any hint that he was doing this to Porthos. The wounds from the cat that wouldn’t heal were the only explanation, though, for why he was feeling like this, unless he had completely missed someone’s ill will directed at him and he didn’t miss those sorts of things -- he was much more perceptive than that. Porthos wanted to reach for whatever explanation he could find that would make Athos exempt from these traitorous thoughts, but it was hard to figure out who else could be responsible.

“Aramis, stop,” Porthos breathed out heavily when Aramis reached for his hand to take his pulse. “You need to get me to Anne and Louis, get me home, get me there _now_ ,” he barked, knowing they were short on time and that if they were quick, they could find some sort of ward that could drive out the poison working within him. 

His head swam even more to think of the blood-letting that was inevitable to try and leech out the evil within him, but he’d rather be in pain than die. 

Porthos could see the look of worry (tinged with the edge of frantic disbelief) that the two men exchanged, but that silent discussion must have ended with agreement because soon they were each shouldering half of his body weight, clumsily knocking off the stovetop and avoiding the shattered bowl on the ground as they dragged him outside to the pick-up. Athos dug into Porthos’ pocket for the keys and if he weren’t feeling so awful and like he wanted to punch Athos for being a traitor, he might have teased him about getting felt up on the first date.

The miserable realization that their first dinner date was a mess hit Porthos and he wondered if his love life was ever going to be _easy_ or if he was doomed to misery and loneliness for eternity. He definitely couldn’t imagine Aramis or Athos wanting to stick around after this. The sheer thought of losing out on this made his throat close and his eyes well up with tears. 

“And call d’Artagnan,” he said, fearing that it would need all their power. He tried to focus his mind on actions rather than the worry that he’d lost Aramis and Athos before anything could begin -- and might have lost Athos for good if he was the one trying to kill Porthos. 

Athos shoved him into the back of the truck and climbed in with him (to keep him calm or to finish the job? Porthos’ mind whispered to him) and Aramis took over driving duty, speeding through town at such speeds that he was practically daring one of the local cops to pull him over.

The steady pressure of Athos’ hand in Porthos’ made him wish he could be stubborn enough to let go and turn away, but he needed the warmth and strength and so he held on to give himself a chance to explain what was happening when he arrived home. 

They were back at the wisteria-covered house within five minutes (an impressive feat considering it usually took twice that amount of time to get there) and Porthos was feeling even less aware of his surroundings with every passing moment. He could feel his energy bleeding away from him and what happened after they hauled him out of the truck was like the events in a dream, barely registering.

Porthos could pick out certain things, yet, like Anne arriving at his side. Anne’s voice was laden with desperate worry, but she was _there_ and she was glowing so brightly, her aura a wonderful thing that made her look saintly in his eyes. “Get him inside,” she commanded. “Louis will show you where. Once you put him down, you have to leave.”

“We’re not leaving,” Athos said crisply.

“It wasn’t a question,” was Anne’s equally firm retort. “You’ve done the right thing bringing him home to us, but I’m afraid that’s where your usefulness ends.”

“I’m a nurse, I can help!” Aramis wasn’t willing to let the matter drop so easily. Porthos let his head loll to the side as they dragged him up the stairs to see the furious indignation on Aramis’ face. Porthos smiled, in a daze, as he noticed how lovely and pink it made his cheeks look. “You can’t just expect us to leave him in this state. At least tell us what’s wrong with him!”

Anne bundled him inside and was so occupied with getting him to safety that she couldn’t block the other two men from following. “There are more pressing matters at hand. Tell me what happened to him and then come back tomorrow. With luck, he’ll be healing and not in the ground.”

Once both of them had recounted the frightening tale of exactly how Porthos had come into this situation, Anne looked them both in the eye and nodded towards Porthos, giving him a look that told him he knew what he had to do, no matter how much he disliked the idea and he didn’t want to evoke that _tone_ she had. Sometimes, Anne could get very bleak and dismal and that icy tone had always scared Porthos. He summoned up all his strength to hold Athos’ gaze, then Aramis’. “Go home,” he instructed. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Don’t die, if we’re making promises,” Aramis replied and though he was trying desperately to sound light, the edge in his voice was telling. “Athos, come on.” 

Porthos continued his slow shuffle towards his bedroom, feeling Louis and d’Artagnan’s arms supporting him instead of Aramis and Athos. With the both of them shifting back, it felt like the warmth was slowly drifting away from him, leaving him so cold and tired.

“Athos!” Aramis’ voice distantly sounded, calling the man who seemed to refuse to leave.

“Steady, Porthos,” Anne murmured. “Stay with us. Stay…”

The emanating golden light from her aura became blinding and the shock wave that washed over him was too powerful. His last conscious thought before he gave into the heavy dreams that seemed so eager to claim him was that if there was any goodwill left that he’d earned, let it keep him alive and let it keep Aramis and Athos in his life.

It was thinking of them that kept the darkness in his consciousness away from him as long as it did. Like talismans, Porthos wielded the beginning affections of both men and tried to drive off the dark presence he could feel at the edge of his awareness, but even Aramis and Athos could only do so much.

Soon, Porthos gave himself over to the struggle and hoped with all his heart that his family would be able to protect him where he hadn’t been able.


	6. By turn of two, its power is through

It felt like he had been sleeping for weeks, when he woke.

Porthos swore he ought to remember something very important, but for the longest time it lingered outside of his consciousness. Eventually, it came to him -- he ought to be grateful that he was waking up at all. His entire body felt as though it had been weighed down with rocks and he had the uncomfortable memory of a second presence in his mind, using him as they took lefts and rights around the house, like they were mapping it out. He felt itchy and not quite right in his skin, with a headache that felt like he might just give birth to a God any minute.

Above him, Anne’s aura glowed soft yellow and warm as she murmured a healing incantation, incense burning behind her. He tried to move, but it felt like he’d been strapped in place. It didn’t take more than a quick look to realize that he _was_ strapped in with several of Louis’ expensive belts and that there were puncture marks in several of his chakras, which might explain why he felt so weak.

If they had been letting out his blood to try and weed out the poison, he would definitely feel like this.

“Anne?” His mouth felt dry and musty, too. “How long…?”

She looked at him without any fear or hatred, rubbing her hand over his forehead before pressing her fingertips through his hair to gently massage his scalp. 

“Go back to sleep,” she coaxed. “You’ve got healing left to do.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she pressed two fingers to his forehead and effectively restrained him in place with a stunning charm before he could do anything about trying to struggle out of his bonds and cause himself more distress. 

“But what’s happening?” Porthos asked wildly, trying to find some manner of strength to push back seeing as he didn’t think he could wield an anti-charm like this.

“Porthos,” she commanded, and there was no arguing this tone. “ _Sleep_.”

Something she did must have knocked him out cold, but he didn’t have the presence of mind to figure out what. At least the dream he fell into was pleasant enough. 

In the back of his mind, he was distantly aware that it was a welcome change after the horrible nightmares he’d been coping with for however long he had been out. This time in the dream, he was back in Athos’ farmhouse while Aramis stirred mortar and pestle, sharp nails like claws tapping the bowl as he worked, his shirt hugging his chest tightly with every motion.

“Where’s Athos?” Porthos wondered, having been dropped into the middle of this dream and given no compass to guide him. The dream felt wrong without his presence, though, as if Porthos knew that Athos belonged with them and without him there, something wasn’t right.

“We’re mad at him,” Aramis replied, apparently playing the role of his subconscious. “Remember? We’re still not sure if he’s the one who did this to us and if he is, we’re going to be very cross about one of the love of our lives betraying us.”

“He’s not responsible,” Porthos argued, but it was wary. How could he convince his subconscious, after all, when it was more the other way around. “I don’t want him to be the one who did this to me,” he amended his argument, because there was so much that made sense if Athos had been the one to do this to him, but there were also gaping holes in that logic that Porthos wanted to crawl into and live in, just to give himself a touch of hope that Athos hadn’t actually betrayed him. He peered closer into the mixture and found white sage and rosemary beneath the pestle, half ground. “Do I know what’s happening?”

Aramis looked somewhat guilty and shifty and glanced away. That was a yes, but it seemed like his conscious mind wasn’t ready to cope with it just yet. 

“Am I going to die?”

“I don’t think so, but it seems like it’s a slim victory,” Aramis said, setting the bowl down as he came closer. His sharp nails seemed to have receded, like the echo of a cat in Porthos’ mind was drifting away. “It was definitely the cat, though. That’s why the wounds weren’t healing. They were infected with one of the darkest forms of magic you’ve ever seen. They’re not sure the scars will ever heal.”

His vanity took the hit for that, though at the moment he was just grateful to be alive. He still wasn’t sure whether he could trust Athos, though he absolutely and desperately wanted to. 

“Are you in danger?” Porthos asked next, which felt like the more important question. “Athos?”

Once again, Aramis was suspiciously quiet, which made Porthos begin to worry what he knew deep down in his subconscious that he wasn’t allowing to the surface. “You’re worried about us,” Aramis finally said. “Is that such a surprise?”

“I suppose not.” Porthos gave him a wry smile. “I should be worried about myself. In the depths of a dream and even here I can’t get you with your clothes off.”

“Give it time,” Aramis promised, setting the bowl down. “Besides, you know that it wouldn’t feel right at all unless Athos was here with us.”

That was true. Even with the betrayal lingering in recent memory, Porthos knew that it wouldn’t be right without the both of them there. The dream felt safe, though, even if it was only Aramis and while he wanted to linger in this dream with the false version of him, he could feel someone tugging him as if they’d clipped a rope to his waist and were slowly pulling him up as if to breathe air.

Closer to surfacing, he gasped as he took a steadying breath and it took a quick check to verify that he wasn’t tied down to the bed any longer.

“You were out two days, this time,” d’Artagnan answered the question he’d yet to ask, though it was on his lips. “And three days before that. You’re lucky Louis’ and Anne’s healing magic took the way it did. It was a close thing.” Judging from the red rim to d’Artagnan’s eyes, the tremble in his hands, and the way he always avoided looking at Porthos dead on, it must have been a lot closer than he’d like to imagine. “You shouldn’t move very much. I think you lost nearly two quarts of blood in the process of trying to get the poison out.”

“Is that why I feel leeched out?” Porthos asked, stubbornly trying to sit up against sage medical advice. He was too weak to fight back when d’Artagnan pushed him back down, shoving pillows behind Porthos’ back. “Don’t fuss so much. You’re acting as if I’m going to break if I even breathe. I’m here, aren’t I? Alive?”

“Barely,” d’Artagnan accused hoarsely. “I’ll go fetch Louis and Anne. They wanted to wait until you were awake to explain everything to both of us.”

At least now Porthos knew that all it took to finally merit an explanation was to nearly die. Not something Porthos felt like trying very often, but he had to admit that it was somewhat effective. His throat was parched beyond belief and so when Anne brought him a glass of cool lemon water, he thought that no one had ever been so good to him before and she was the most lovely thing in the world.

“How are you feeling, Porthos?” Louis asked, taking the large plush chair beside the bed as Anne brought the rocking chair with her into the room. D’Artagnan had elected to sit nearly on top of Porthos’ feet like a pup wrapped around him. It was almost embarrassing to admit, but it was exactly what he needed right now. His family brought with them warmth and protection and Porthos wanted to bask in it.

He grimaced as he reached out for the water, though Anne held it out for him as he sipped through the straw. “Exhausted,” he admitted. “Really, really tired and sore. Have Aramis and Athos been by to see me?” he asked, unable to help his curiosity.

“They tried, but we couldn’t let them inside. It was too dangerous,” Louis said, lifting his chin as if to show he wasn’t scared though the fearful glint in his eyes betrayed him. “I don’t think we can pretend not to know what’s afoot any longer and the both of you deserve an explanation. You, especially, Porthos after you’ve been dragged into this,” he confessed, twisting the ring on his pinky finger. “We tried to keep you out of this as much as possible, but it seems that my mother has been so _awful_ and _malevolent_ and cruel,” he spat out, sounding indignant and young. Porthos remembered, then, what d’Artagnan had said once a long time ago, about how Marie had tried to kill Louis.

“Why would she do this?”

“She wants the house,” Anne said. “She was using you to guide her through it and find its’ secrets. The cat is hers, Porthos, he doesn’t belong to Athos. She could sense the spell you’d cast all those years ago and used a very dangerous spell to influence Athos to take Vincent with him when he followed it here. Speaking of,” she said wryly, exchanging a look with Louis, “he’s not a cat. He’s her familiar, cursed into that form, but able to shift between the cat and the human form as necessary.”

“Why this house?” D’Artagnan’s question was one that Porthos would have asked next, wondering what was so important about this house that he had to nearly die for her to get it. 

It also made him wonder what she was going to try next, but figured they should address one problem at a time.

Louis ran his fingers over the armrest lovingly, as if an old friend. “This house has been in my family for generations. Some say that it even dates back to the royalty of old, four hundred years ago and that they practiced their magic in little places like this away from the palaces. It rests on a leyline and the magic of several generations’ worth of Bourbons has seeped into the walls. This is a very powerful house, which I’m sure you’ve both felt. Spells cast here are stronger,” he said, “and the intent of those who live here also matters immensely.”

“We’ve been able to turn it into something good,” Anne said. “We’ve benefitted the town with prosperity, luck, and a good deal of charm. Marie wants to end all that. She wants a base of power. First Dammarie, then...I don’t even want to know,” she admitted. “With access to the leyline, she could infect her way through the world, if her coven’s connections go far enough.”

“So how do we stop her?” D’Artagnan jumped straight to the point and Porthos looked at the both of them expectantly. “How did you stop her last time?”

“Barely,” Anne admitted. “Louis and I were able to create a banishment spell that cast her from town. Sometimes I think she only retreated knowing that she had to amass more power. We had more children, then, but none of them were quite as powerful as you two. I knew when I found you in Paris and you in Gascony that it was no coincidence you were without your parents. I don’t know that it was Marie behind it, but both of you are very, very powerful.”

That news was like a blow to his stomach. Sharing a glance with d’Artagnan, it seemed to hit just as hard. Porthos had only been four when he’d been found, but d’Artagnan had been somewhat older. He was six when they had brought him in, his father having been slain on their farm mysteriously.

“She did this to my father?” d’Artagnan asked roughly.

Porthos wished he had the strength to reach out and offer some sort of comfort, but the most he could do was reach out to clasp d’Artagnan’s ankle, giving it a light squeeze.

“I’m so sorry,” Anne murmured softly. “We didn’t want to tell you, but you both deserve to know. Especially now that she’s back.”

“So what do we do?” Porthos asked, trying to steer his mind away from bleak thoughts about what Marie had done to his mother -- and if it was like what she had done to him.

“The plan, thus far,” Louis began, sounding somewhat sure of himself, “is to find as many weapons as we can. We’ll spend the next few days increasing our power. It’s also critical we separate her from Vincent. She won’t rest, now. Especially not now that her attempts to kill you have failed,” he said to Porthos. “When it comes time, we’ll bind her in place and use one of the spelled weapons to cut her heart out.”

Porthos cringed at the vivid imagery. “She’s your mother,” he said, a bit weakly considering he had no real love for this strange woman who seemed plenty eager to go ahead and kill her family. “You don’t feel bad about this?”

“Any ill feeling I had towards her ended the day she tried to kill me,” Louis replied crisply, clapping his hands together as he rose to his feet. “Back to the cauldron, then!”

He left with d’Artagnan at his heels, but Anne lingered in the doorway. “Athos and Aramis have been asking to see you. I know you were concerned that Athos had betrayed you.” At Porthos’ inquiring look, her smile turned a touch gentler. “You talk in your sleep and you’re not very hard to read,” she explained fondly. “Would you like me to let them in?”

“You’re okay with that?” he asked, unsure about letting them in with so much powerful, influencing magic in the air. “Even with how dangerous it is?”

“Keep them out of the basement and hope that Marie doesn’t have plans for them.”

Porthos had to wonder whether Anne knew that he was about to tell both of them the truth about who and what they were, but he caught her wink and had to wonder how long she’d been planning to let Porthos tell the both of them about magic. Eventually, he nodded his agreement to let the both of them visit. He knew that he had to come clean with the both of them at some point and with the way things were going, the sooner was probably better.

“...my scar?” he asked before Anne could leave. “Is it there? Is it permanent?”

“We exhausted a great deal of healing magic for them, but I’m afraid it only dulled them both. You’re going to be left with a bit of a scar on both your arm and your eye. Don’t fret, darling, you’re still so handsome that I could weep,” she praised, leaning forward to cup his cheek and press a kiss to the top of the scar on his eye. “I’ll go phone the boys, tell them that you’re up and ready to accept visitors. If they’re a bit much for you…”

“I’ll send them away,” Porthos cut her off, knowing that he wasn’t going to push things.

“Good,” she said, as if she was pleased that he was being sensible. “Now, rest,” she coaxed. “I’m sure you don’t need to be told that we need you at full strength for the upcoming battle.”

 

Porthos let his head fall back against the pillow and despite his will to want to stay awake, he couldn’t exactly force himself to do so when his energy had basically been spent in the course of one conversation. He wasn’t sure what sort of help they were expecting him to be, because he couldn’t even keep his head up at the moment, let alone defeat a wicked witch. They could manage without him for a bit, though, so Porthos let the lethargy wash over him like a tidal wave, giving in to new dreams.

In these, his subconscious decided to keep quiet and he was devoid of any dreams. It was a soothing nothingness and Porthos clung to it as long as he could.

When it finally ebbed away, Porthos came to awakeness to find he wasn’t alone in his childhood bedroom. It was morning, judging from the way the sunlight came in through the southern-facing windows, and Athos was sitting in the chair next to the bed, a steady look on his face as he regarded Porthos.

“Anne said you would be happy to see us, but Aramis is unfortunately working,” Athos explained. “I didn’t know if I would be welcome after the way you looked at me that night, though I dared to hope,” he said, and though Athos’ tone was even, Porthos could hear the glimmer of worry behind it, that things between them might be over before they really got a chance to start.

“I had things wrong,” Porthos admitted. “And I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me dead.”

“Why would I want you dead, Porthos?” Athos wondered, bewilderment on his face.

“Your cat sort of nearly did the job,” he said. “It wasn’t too much of a leap to suspect you.”

The confusion didn’t dissipate. If anything, it only grew worse. Athos shook his head and stared down at him with nothing but bewilderment and exasperation. “I didn’t realize I needed a dictionary. Porthos, what are you talking about? Whyever would I want you dead? You think I’d dream about someone, move to a small city half in the middle of nowhere based on instinct alone, meet that man and then try and kill you? I may be a bit of a grump, but even your earnest cheer isn’t enough to move me to murder and especially not so soon in the relationship.”

Porthos groaned as he shifted himself into a sitting position, grateful for Athos’ help when he reached over to guide him with a firm hand wrapped around Porthos’ arm.

“I’m going to tell you something,” Porthos said, “and you might think I’m insane.”

“We won’t know until you try, will we?”

Porthos gave him a look that said he already knew how this was going to go. The last time he’d given this talk, Flea and Charon had listened with such understanding and care, but then two weeks later, they’d decided to pick up and head to Paris. Despite the lesser time he’d known Athos and Aramis, he didn’t think he could bear it if they did the same. 

He breathed in slowly, trying to keep himself calm as he rubbed his hand over his arm, trying to keep steady as he thought about how you ever started an explanation like this. It would have been so much easier if this were Aramis, who seemed like he would believe the tenets of magic in the world. Athos seemed so much more cynical and less willing to believe.

“Have you ever come across something that you couldn’t explain, not without letting your belief system wander far, far outside what’s possible?”

“Until recently, no, but you nearly dying on my kitchen floor due to nothing more than cat’s scratches is pushing me to broaden my horizons,” Athos admitted, reaching out to steady Porthos with a hand to his shoulder, rubbing his thumb in circles to soothe him. “Porthos, tell me what happened.”

“I’m figuring out how to start,” he protested, feeling like there was so much he could start with, but he only got one shot at being honest like this and didn’t want to mess it up. 

Eventually, he figured that nothing he was going to say would gently lead into this and he might as well go for broke.

“I’m a witch, Athos,” he said, driving straight to the point. Countless other ways he could have done this flickered through his mind, but none of them really seemed any better than just charging forward with it.

Unsurprisingly, Athos didn’t exactly look like he instantly believed him. 

“You’re a … witch. Broomstick and pointy hat witch?”

“Never really liked any of the other terms,” Porthos admitted. “Warlord, sorcerer,and all. I think I just prefer witch.” He rubbed a hand over his curls, wincing when he felt the pull affect his arm a touch. He could actually feel Athos’ disbelief and worry radiating off of him and knew that he’d have to tap into his energy stores in order to prove it, no matter how little he was looking forward to it. 

Gesturing across them, Porthos reached out to push two fingers under the locket that Athos was wearing around his neck. “What are you doing?” Athos asked, calm and yet somehow dangerous.

“I’m proving it to you. I know you don’t believe me, whether it’s because you don’t actually believe it or you don’t want to, I’m not sure.” 

He bowed his head down low and poured his focus and concentration into the object, winding it up through the air so that it dangled above them and twirled it around in circles before he worked it back over Athos’ hair, adorning stray strands of wild hair before returning to its place. He sagged back against the bed after, heart beating wildly. 

“I’m usually better with spells, things that tie into the Earth,” he admitted. “But I’m a witch. Been one since as long as I could remember.”

“You’re a witch,” Athos echoed again. “What does that have to do with what happened to you? And how does my cat factor into all of this madness.”

“Not your cat,” Porthos said firmly, given that he wanted to distance the idea of that monstrous animal from the man in front of him. “It belongs to Marie de’ Medici. My grandmother, technically,” he said darkly. 

“My cat,” Athos repeated, clearly not getting the message, “tried to kill you.”

“They were using me to get into the house, once the cat had infected me and managed to seep into my mind. I don’t think they cared whether I lived or not,” Porthos admitted, taking Athos’ hand on his shoulder as a good sign. The brushes of his thumb had diminished, but it was still there. “The scars are probably always going to stay, the way they are,” he scowled, still a touch too vain to really be okay with it.

He cast up a hopeful gaze to gauge Athos’ reaction, still wary about the whole thing. What he found was promising -- it wasn’t entirely opening and welcoming, but it wasn’t completely shut off either.

“You’re a witch.”

Porthos nodded slowly, feeling worse than sapped as he sank down into the bed. 

“And your whole family…?”

“Magical,” Porthos confirmed. Athos was beginning to look a bit peaky and he had the feeling if he kept going on, they were only going to run into a brick wall. “Anne and Louis adopted me when I was just a boy and they’ve been nurturing me ever since.” 

He glossed over the part about how he’d cast the spell to find his perfect men when he’d been so young and how he really, honestly thought that he’d found them. Apart from that, though, he told Athos as much as he could. He talked about how he worked in the shop and aimed to brighten the flowers using whatever power he could, how he could move through the world’s energy and use it to help him levitate objects (even himself, if he wanted) and how he’d been able to read auras if he focused hard enough.

“No telling the future,” he said. “Definitely no mind-reading, and most of what I do needs to be aided by spells. I’ve been getting better at healing, mostly because I hate the hospital so much.” He felt like he’d spilled all of his secrets, but at the same time hadn’t said anywhere near enough.

He already wasn’t looking forward to doing this all over again with Aramis.

“This is a lot to take in,” Athos said warily. “And I’m not saying I don’t believe you. Obviously that would be mad because I doubt you have a magnet that helped you do that trick with my locket, but you’re asking me to believe you’re a witch.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agreed, with an edge of uncertainty. “And I’m really hoping that you’re not about to run, because the last people I told about this sort of took off. Not to pressure you or anything, but it’d be nice if we could continue to keep feeling out whatever it is the three of us have been trying. Complicated as it is,” he admitted ruefully. “Seeing as I don’t think dying on the first date is ever a good sign.”

“I’ve had worse,” Athos deadpanned. “At least you had the good grace to do it before the dinner you were making for us. Speaking of…” He shifted to unearth a styrofoam container that smelled of garlic and basil, some mild tendrils of steam curling up despite how long Athos must have been sitting there. “I brought you the dinner we never got to eat. I thought you and I could sit and have ourselves a little picnic lunch.”

“You’re not running off?”

“I might be a touch overwhelmed, but you’re worth a bit of disbelief,” Athos said calmly, a fond look on his face (even if took Porthos a bit of delving and looking into his aura to find it). “Besides, Anne said that you were weak and Aramis insisted I bring you some dinner.”

Porthos reached out for the dinner with a bit of tentative wariness, but the gesture was so kind and so honest that he couldn’t see any reason why Athos would do it otherwise. Now that Anne and Louis had explained everything, he no longer feared that Athos was involved in a negative way and knew, in his heart, that Athos would never hurt him like that.

Mouth full of lukewarm pasta (that still tasted like the best thing he’d eaten all week), Porthos cast a hopeful look upwards. “Stay?” he requested.

“What gave you the impression I was going to leave?” Athos replied, holding up his book. “You’re going to eat, then sleep, and I’m going to make sure my cat doesn’t come to finish off the job. He may have claws, but that’s the last time he’s going to hurt someone I care about. You know, it’s funny. Ever since I arrived here, it’s like I barely recall picking him up. I know I did, I even know why I did, but it’s all hazy.”

“That’s the problem with some magic,” Porthos said darkly. “The coercion can actually make you think or do things you would never do otherwise. Louis has always said his Mum was good at that,” he said, trying not to think about how worried he’d been about his own magic coercing the men into something. 

They didn’t need to know about his fears, especially since it was all just a misunderstanding.

“Well, rest assured, there’s no love lost now,” Athos said firmly, brushing his fingers soothingly through Porthos’ hair as he adjusted the seat to move closer. “Sleep. Or Aramis is going to show up and you’re going to have to explain all over again and I can tell you now he’ll insist on much more of a lights and fireworks show.”

Setting the food aside, Porthos grumbled that he wasn’t a trick pony who did nothing but impress people with his magic. He hadn’t even performed it for anyone in ages and felt, childishly, that he wanted to impress the both of them.

_Soon_ , he promised himself. _Soon._ First, he had to sleep and rest up because the coming days were definitely going to be difficult.


	7. By turn of three

It took Porthos another five days before he felt strong enough to be on his feet.

They were long and frustrating for Porthos, who had been so nearly drained completely of his life energy that he had spent the majority of the time arguing against the continuous fussing of both Anne and Aramis, who had figured out that if they both double-teamed Porthos at once, he was bound to listen. Not only that, they were frustrating because Marie was out there and every day meant that she was drawing in more power.

“I want to do something,” he insisted sharply, amongst the melee around him.

“In your state? You’re only fit to walk around now. Any earlier would have been a quick defeat,” Anne said pragmatically, as Aramis busied himself with lunch (perched on the table beside Porthos). 

“I’m able to feed myself!” he finally snapped when Aramis kept trying to spoon-feed him bits of applesauce. “You’re no help,” he accused Athos and d’Artagnan, who were sat in the corner playing cards and ignoring the madness. “At least let me hold the spoon myself,” he said with a long sigh, resolving himself to allowing this to continue.

“I’ve learned not to get in the middle of Aramis and his caretaking.” Athos barely glanced up from his cards and Porthos was forced to turn the full weight of his glower onto Aramis.

Aramis, sadly, didn’t seem the least bit affected. “You know you only look like a downtrodden puppy when you try that on me,” he pointed out. Gesturing for him, he encouraged him to eat a few more bites. “Come on. Eat just a touch more, then we’re going to practice your levitation and aura-reading.”

Telling Aramis about the magic had been a mistake, thought Porthos. Sure, he’d been very open to the idea and extremely receptive, but he’d instantly taken to the worry of the magical damage that Marie had caused him in the attack. Now, there were routines woven into his physical therapy to take care of all aspects of his life. Things like focusing on auras and tapping into the earth’s energy were listed as exercises between leg stretches and deep breathing when it came to ‘Porthos’ Healing Rituals’. 

Worst, Anne extremely approved given that she probably would have been doing it herself had Aramis not taken over Porthos’ healing responsibilities. He did take private joy in her approval of his relationship with both men, but didn’t exactly love how much encouraged this idiocy. 

(Though, who was Porthos kidding? She had probably already begun to plan for his wedding to the both of them and that was a worrisome thing in how excited it made him to think of even the possibility)

“Can I go back to the coma?” Porthos grumbled. Still, he finished the food and worked himself up so that he could start on Aramis’ detailed list of intense and devoted stretches. His legs shook, trembled like mad, but he still pushed himself forward on shaky legs to finish the last bits of stretches.

“Don’t you even joke about that,” Louis warned from the stove, where he was brewing something that probably could’ve doubled as a potion, but was actually just his version of chicken noodle soup -- with just as many bones in it to do some actual potent damage as any spell could. “It’s still _far_ too much of a close call and now that she’s officially back in town…”

Well, no one wanted to think about it.

She’d arrived in a flurry of activity with a gray-haired man behind her -- the actual Vincent, so Athos was currently short one murderous cat. She’d made sure everyone in town had watched her arrival and had stopped by the house just long enough to linger at the door before heading to the graveyard, communing with whatever dead she was so interested in. 

Truth be told, she kind of scared Porthos. Then again, she had sicced her familiar on him and had almost killed him, so he felt as if he was somewhat justified being as worried as he was.

“Stop it,” he muttered when Anne reached over to help give him a push when he had stopped in his forward steps and stretches to think about what Marie’s return meant. “Can I please go back to having a store and not being worried over all the time? I’ve been capable of handling myself for years, now.”

“Should have thought of that before you picked up two boyfriends,” d’Artagnan said helpfully, though he was distracted by his latest hand of cards, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip -- it was one of the signs he was worried, too, given how he tended to fidget like mad when he was unsure as to what was going to happen next. “I like Athos, though. He loses at cards.”

“You’re cheating,” Athos argued.

“Porthos is a good teacher, yeah,” d’Artagnan agreed brightly, though he winced when Anne glared at him. “Though I would hardly know when he’s been cheating, as he doesn’t do that?”

“Not anymore,” she said, though Porthos had possibly chanced a few false hands down at the bar a few weeks ago -- not that she needed to know about that, especially if she didn’t already. “Aramis, take Porthos through his charms. Louis and I will feed the boys and then you two can head off to the shop to help Porthos.”

“They have jobs,” Porthos protested.”You can’t just order them around like this.”

“As if we mind. Athos, do you mind?”

Athos shook his head, barely glancing up from where he was staring at the cards on the table with such intensity that Porthos had a fear they might light on fire any moment now.

“Don’t worry. We won’t linger long. We’ll spend one hour with you before going back to our own jobs,” Aramis assured, wrapping his arms around Porthos’ shoulder and beckoning Athos closer with a nod of his head. “We’ll do all the heavy lifting so all you have to do is sit and look as pretty as you are. Now, come along. You’ve got fifteen charms that I’d like to run through and then you can go back to all those lovely roses and hydrangeas that don’t talk back or make you stretch.”

Despite his frustration with the situation, Porthos let Aramis lead him into the solarium where they practiced healing charms, locating charms, and various other miscellany before Aramis seemed content to release him from his practice.

Porthos glanced up to see Athos lingering in the doorway, three coats draped over his arm. He felt weary, but also eager to get back to the store. D’Artagnan and Constance had been doing their parts in keeping it running, but Porthos wanted to get back not only to quiet the town gossip about what happened to him, but also because he didn’t want to know what surfaces had been sullied while he was out and felt like he ought to stop it before the whole shop had been tainted with puppy love.

“Has he accomplished mastery of the craft yet?” Athos asked, handing off coats.

“Nearly there,” Aramis said pleasantly, as if he hadn’t been putting Porthos through the tortures of both physical and magical therapy. “I’m going to ask him to dye your hair blue tomorrow.”

“He can’t,” Athos replied sharply, giving Porthos a curious look. “Can you? If you can, you shouldn’t.”

“All the more reason he should,” Aramis argued, helping to get Porthos to his feet. 

Porthos could do that, but it wasn’t bright blue that he was imagining. Pink was so much more vivid and streaks of green would give him that dignified look of the 90’s that they had only managed to crawl out of recently. He allowed Aramis to help shoulder him onto his feet, steadying himself on the wall to get his boots on. 

“I really don’t like this,” Athos said quietly. “That woman is roaming around town and she’s already tried to hurt you once. What if she does it again when you’re hardly at your peak strength?”

“Constance will be at the shop,” Porthos promised. “And if Marie thinks she’s getting past her, she’s never met Constance,” he said with an amused snort for the mental image of a battle between them. Magic or not, there were some things that couldn’t stand up against sheer determination.

Aramis and Athos exchanged a look that was brimming with silent conversation and even if Porthos wasn’t so intuitive and attuned to emotions, he would be able to see that neither of them were pleased with his decision. 

“I’ll head straight to the hospital,” Aramis said firmly. “Tell them there’s a family obligation and then I’ll head to the shop.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Athos vowed. “Barring an emergency, the pets of this town can wait a day.”

It wouldn’t be like either of them would be anything other than tissue paper to Marie, but Porthos was privately grateful for the support and the extra presence. 

“Then we have a plan,” Aramis said firmly, pressing a chaste kiss to Porthos’ cheek that left him hungry for a proper one. With all the madness that had been happening, the three of them had been growing closer than ever, but physical intimacy was still a far and distant thing, which Porthos was beginning to worry would never be within his reach. 

He was going a bit mad.

His dark dreams had been replaced by frustrating ones in which he inevitably woke up before even the dream version of him could get his hands on Aramis and Athos. It was turning into a bit of a situation, given how badly he wanted the contact. He reached out to try and hold onto Aramis a touch longer, but he slid just outside of his touch, pressing a similar kiss to Athos’ cheek before he left.

“Soup’s on!” Louis said brightly from the kitchen.

Athos cast Porthos a wary look. “Get your jacket on quickly. I saw him putting cinnamon in it.”

Maybe Porthos should be worried about poisoning from inside the home, as well.

“Sorry, we have to get to the shop,” Porthos made their excuses, pushing past both a hopeful Louis and a pleading d’Artagnan as they departed. “Constance shouldn’t be left alone so long. She starts to think she runs the place and I want another three or four years before I accept that she probably does.”

He gave Athos a push out the door with a hand to the small of his back, ignoring d’Artagnan’s plaintive look, a clear request to come with them. He mouthed ‘later’ to his younger sibling, seeing as he’d had way too much private time with Constance and the shop needed a break from all that young love. 

“Now that Aramis and Anne aren’t fussing over your every move, maybe you’ll tell me how you’re actually feeling,” Athos said as they began a slow walk through town, in no real rush to reach the shop. “You don’t always have to act so strong. You’re allowed to have a moment or two of weakness.”

“I’m pretty sure almost dying counts as weakness,” Porthos replied, leaning on Athos harder than he necessarily and probably had to. The contact grounded him in such a way that it took his mind off of any of the terrible things that had been happening, but also happened to put his mind on much nicer things, like the firmness of those muscles under his weight. “Besides, I’m not rushing to get back to work because I want to push myself. I just need to get out of that house.”

The house was linked in his mind to those nightmares, now, and it was difficult to split them apart. It was awful to feel both safe and utterly without a rudder in the same place. It was tainted by Marie and obviously he hated her for nearly taking his life, but he also hated her for robbing him of the one place he’d felt safe for the last nearly two decades.

“You’re much better, though,” Athos noted. “Five days ago, I was genuinely worried that you might not make it.” 

Athos’ worry was _awful_ , Porthos had learned.

The man didn’t seem prone to want to share his emotions, but there were some that bled through without him meaning to and they struck with three times the power that should have, otherwise. Once Porthos had absolved him of any wrongdoing, Athos had driven himself straight into that worried state and Porthos had felt the brunt of it. If it had only been the surface level, it might have been fine, but Porthos was exposed to the energy below that and it packed a hell of a punch.

Worse, he’d wanted to ease it away, but hadn’t been able to even support himself vertically, let alone reassure Athos with any of the emotional or physical support he wanted to give.

At least he had Aramis to do it for him -- and he’d snuck the other man aside to insist that as much care that was being showered on him ought to be given to Athos too -- and Aramis seemed like he had more than enough fussing in him for the both of them. He’d quickly proven it, too, with the onslaught of care in Athos’ direction.

“Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?” Porthos said. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Nor do we want to.” Athos’ hand drifted lower to slide to Porthos’ lower back, slipping under the fabric of his t-shirt. That momentary, bright warmth of his fingers sent a spark of endlessly frustrating thoughts through Porthos’ mind, culminating in imagining those fingers doing several other things to him. “Porthos?” Athos murmured softly when Porthos drifted into his personal space as if to chase after him.

Porthos, stuck staring at Athos’ lips, hardly hearing him. “Hmm?” he murmured, wondering if this would be the opportunity for a first kiss.

“We’re at your shop and you have company.”

_Fuck ‘em_ , Porthos wanted to say, but a quick glance into the floor to ceiling windows of the shop showed Constance and Treville paying extremely close attention to them. While he wanted to be able to start accelerating things, he also didn’t think he wanted to do it with an audience present.

Sighing, Porthos opened the door in order to face his friends, thinking that they were entirely unwelcome. He wondered, too, what they had been told. 

“No pneumonia can beat you,” Treville remarked, not leaving Porthos in mystery for very long at all. “You look much better than I expected. The picture Anne had painted of you wasn’t very promising.”

Porthos could only imagine. Louis might be the one known for his over exaggeration and dramatics, but Anne could be just as bad when it came to her nearest and dearest. Porthos leaned over to kiss Constance on the cheek, allowing Athos to help him settle down into a stool. 

“You shouldn’t trust rumours,” Porthos replied.

“Ah, now more than ever,” Treville noted. “I see Marie the Malevolent is back in town.”

Porthos furrowed his brow, curious as to what he knew of her. The last time that she had been around, he had been too young to remember and people didn’t really talk about her. She was sort of like a pink elephant that people did their very best to ignore. Clasping Athos by the shoulder, he helped to settle at the cash register counter, surrounded by friends and his work and feeling _right_ for the first time in days.

“You knew her, then?” Constance asked. She wasn’t very gossipy, but her interest was obviously far more personal, given her attachment to d’Artagnan. “What did she do? No one will even look her in the eye and I’ve watched people cross the street to escape her!”

“It’s awful to call anyone evil,” Treville began, as if disclaiming his speech, “but she’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to it. Before she left town, this place wasn’t like you know it. Things were run down and awful. Disasters seemed to strike more often than not and there was a truly bad element to town. Not to mention, people who disagreed with her had a bad habit of winding up in an accident.”

“Not so much accidents, were they?” Athos surmised.

“No,” Treville concurred, shifting in his chair to slowly lift up the cuff of his trouser leg to show off a long, thin jagged scar. “I can vouch personally to that.”

“What _happened_?” Constance gasped, leaning down to trace the line of it. 

“Marie and I never got along, that’s no secret,” Treville said. “She didn’t approve of how I hounded her to get her cat in for treatment. The thing was a mess, always wandering through town and causing chaos, probably spreading disease. I made my displeasure known and not soon after that, a piece of plate glass at the office fell on me and cut me open. Anne was the one who found me, strangely enough,” he said, turning a look towards Porthos that was both appreciative and yet curious. “Now that she’s back, I fear that things are only bound to get bad again.”

Porthos knew that Treville was likely right, given that he’d already had a taste of how bad it could be.

“Enough of that,” Constance said. “Porthos, how are you feeling? Athos warned me you were coming, so I warmed up some soup.”

“Louis’?” he asked warily, not excited yet to put his spoon in given that he didn’t feel like bones.

“No, silly,” Constance chided as she handed a napkin to Athos, who was quick to tuck it into his shirt. “It’s from me. Cream of Carrot.”

It made it all the more appetizing, pushing Porthos forward to eat while he mulled over what Treville had said. “And no one ever said anything else about her? No one ever accused her of these things?” Porthos asked, wondering if the word ‘magic’ had ever been brought into it or whether the secret had remained kept all these years.

“Hard to do anything without proof,” Treville said. 

“Maybe this time, she won’t be so careful,” Athos said archly, his fingers tightening their grip on Porthos’ shoulder protectively. 

Obviously, he wanted some sort of justice, given that he’d nearly died and she was at fault, but what was he supposed to do? March right down to the chief of police and inform them that he’d been viciously attacked by a murderous cat that had nearly sucked the life out of him? He touched some of the spots that had been opened up to save him, still tender and cautious.

“Here’s hoping she picks up and goes when she figures out how unwelcome she is,” Constance said firmly. 

Porthos could only agree, opening his mouth to say so when the front door burst open and Aramis appeared on the stoop of the shop in a wild panic.

“You should probably come outside,” he said to Porthos, a dark look on his face. “You’re going to want to see what’s happening in the centre of town. Marie is out there spouting a lot of nonsense.” From the look on his face, though, Porthos had the terrible feeling that it might sound a great deal like nonsense, but was far, far from it. 

He threw the cloth napkin to the counter and rose to his feet, though he was falling over within seconds thanks to the sudden imbalance of not having the strength to stay vertical. He growled and pushed himself up again, pushing away Athos’ help as he tried to struggle around the counter. 

“Stay here,” he said to Treville and Constance. He knew that he didn’t want Aramis and Athos with him, but also knew that giving them the command wasn’t liable to do anything. 

Aramis was already wrapping his arm around Porthos’ waist to help him along, practically vibrating with fear. His aura was a frightening steel shade of blue and gray that made Porthos’ stomach uneasy, despite the soup. Porthos was almost afraid to ask what was happening, but it didn’t take them long at all to find Marie in the town square.

It seemed like she was the entertainment for the day. Grouped around her were all the townsfolk and possibly more than should have been there, given that they were meant to be at work. Porthos shuffled his way to the front of the throng, watching how Marie had elevated herself by standing on the edge of the fountain with a gray-haired man (Vincent, Porthos realized) standing behind her.

Porthos caught Vincent’s eye and the man smiled devilishly at him, one of those looks that felt like he was aiming to finish the job. 

“...and there’s another one of them now,” Marie said darkly, pointing at Porthos with vigour. 

He searched wildly through the crowd and found Anne standing near him, drifting closer to stand protectively at his side. She reached out to slide her hand into his, squeezing protectively tight. He had a bad feeling he knew what was happening and could recall a dozen nightmares taking place exactly like this.

“You think your town is safe,” Marie was saying, unchecked and unsilenced. “All this time, you’ve been living amongst witches who can influence your decisions and shape your lives. They can twist your mind up, they can ruin your life.”

Porthos stared desperately at Anne. “Why aren’t we stopping her?” he hissed.

“She’ll kill us if we do,” Anne replied quietly, a worn look on her face. “We need all of us here.”

And so they had to listen, had to watch as she stepped down from her pedestal and began to approach Porthos, who glared with every ounce of malignant hate that he could store in his body for her, but he didn’t seem to be the target. Instead, he ignored him and Anne and went straight to Aramis and then Athos. 

“You think he’s so lovely, don’t you?” she said, her voice soft and warm, like a maternal grandmother here to take care of her children. She reached out and touched her hand to Athos’ cheek; the only reason Porthos didn’t bolt to strangle her was because Anne was holding him back. She was weaving some sort of spell to keep them in place, to try and use her persuasion to convince them of whatever lie she was about to tell. “Isn’t he?” she mused, turning to Aramis next. “You would think that.”

“Anne,” Porthos pleaded, gripping her hand all the tighter, his every being wanting to fight against this. 

Marie’s gaze slid towards Porthos, her smile glinting devilish before she continued. “He forced you into it. He cast a spell and made you believe that you love him.” 

Porthos snapped into a full straight posture, a fearful look on his face. She was calling them out in front of their gossipy, horribly, potentially dangerous friends. Worst of all, she was telling _lies_ to the two men that he cared most about.

“That’s not true, I didn’t…”

“You didn’t cast a love spell?” Marie interrupted him, turning the full force of her icy stare on him. It had the power to knock him off guard, sending him stumbling back. He breathed in and out desperately, wondering how bad this could get. “When you were fourteen years old, you didn’t sit down and ask the world to make these men yours. Answer me,” she commanded.

Even if he had wanted to withhold his words, Porthos didn’t think he would have been able to.

“Did you cast a love spell?” she asked again, sweeter and kind, as if they were old friends.

“Yes,” he said, petrified and frozen.

“For them?”

“Yes,” he said again, though the trembling fear began to creep in. He didn’t dare look at either Aramis or Athos’ expression, so worried about what either of them were going to look like. “But it wasn’t like that!” he protested wildly, despite his own fears that he’d done that being only weeks old. “I wouldn’t force anyone like that! Not ever!”

He finally dared a look at them. Athos looked frozen with shock and there was something horrible and accusatory on Aramis’ face, as if he believed every word she said. Porthos could feel his whole world begin to come splintering down around him like broken glass and the worst part was not knowing how to repair it.

“You made them love you and here they are,” she sighed, as if so disappointed. “Here you are, lapping up their affection.”

“Porthos, did you cast that spell?” Athos asked, straight and to the point.

He stared at them wildly, knowing he wasn’t able to lie. “I did,” he agreed. “But I swear to you, I swear with all my heart, I would never force anyone to love me. I thought I had, so I was trying to undo it, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t trapped you. Anne told me…”

“And you’ll trust this witch?” Marie cut in sharply.

“Would you shut it?” Porthos growled at her, no longer caring what was going to happen to him if it meant she was turning Athos and Aramis against him. “I’m not that sort of man, I would never force either of you…”

“Porthos, enough,” Aramis cut him off.

He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. The look on Aramis’ face made him feel beyond low and he didn’t know what he was going to do next. He sagged down and in on himself, his shoulders sinking low. He didn’t know what to do, but Anne’s presence at his side was enough to keep him optimistic. Porthos felt the rest of the fight go out of him and coupled with his physical state, he resigned himself for whatever came next.

“That’s a good man,” Marie said with a delighted smile, tipping his chin up with two fingers. “I knew one of you had to be intelligent under all that prettiness.”

Distantly, Porthos registered a hand on his back that didn’t belong to Anne. It was too hard and firm, masculine fingers supporting him and though it took him a moment, he realized that it was Athos who was crowding in closer. It was a hopeful, wonderful thing, and Porthos relaxed back into it, drawing on it for the sort of strength he thought was gone.

“He drew you into his web and he snared you there with magic.”

The dreadful whispers around her were awful and Porthos felt like they were stinging at him constantly, losing the trust and the respect of the people of their village. Still, he had Anne at his side and Athos right behind him.

“Aramis,” Porthos begged, trying to get him back. “Please, don’t.”

Aramis turned around and shared a long look with Porthos that was odd and a touch beguiling. It almost looked like he was smirking at him, sharing a secretive wink when he was turned away from Marie and Vincent. Why would he do that, though, why would he…?”

Porthos realized a moment too late what Aramis intended to do.

“No,” he breathed out, this time filled with far more panic than before. Whatever Aramis thought he was doing, it couldn’t work out well for him. He strained forward, but was stopped by both Anne and Athos -- and even in Porthos’ weakened state, his desperation nearly overpowered their hold. 

He saw the blade in Aramis’ hands before Marie did, but only by a second.

It must have been something that Aramis picked up at the house in the days that had passed. He flipped it easily in his hands so the sharp end was angled towards Marie’s heart, but Marie had seen the flash. Porthos bolted forward out of Athos and Anne’s grip, sprinting raggedly for Vincent before he could stop Aramis. “Aramis!” he cried out his warning, watching as Marie turned and held up both hands in the air. 

Magic like Porthos had never seen before swirled around her palms. It was an angry violet, darkness flooding the centre of town. The panic was quick to hit people, sending some of them running until only the most devoted and curious of onlookers were left, including Principal Richelieu, Treville, with Constance and d’Artagnan lurking just out of sight (probably waiting for Louis before stepping into the fray). Porthos kept Vincent pinned to the ground, struggling to keep him there and grateful that Athos was there to help Aramis.

The only trouble was that Marie had sealed herself and Aramis in a protective circle together.

“You need to learn how to obey,” Marie said, clapping her hands together. The sound was so loud that it nearly deafened Porthos from where he stood. She reached out with one hand and grabbed Aramis by the wrist, squeezing until the knife dropped out of his hand with a clatter. The smoke continued to cloud in around Aramis until Porthos couldn’t see him. 

“I can’t get to him!” Athos barked, panicked. “Aramis, what’s happening?”

Beyond the veil of black, there was no answer.

“Aramis!” Porthos cried out, using his elbow and as much force as he could summon to knock Vincent out cold. He struggled to his feet, searching for Anne and trying to figure out how to pierce through the ancient magic that was being used. Surely, between him, Anne, and d’Artagnan, the three of them could do something.

By the time he could get back to Anne’s side, though, it was too late. Marie stepped out of the cloud of smoke with a self-satisfied smile on her face.

“That’s the trouble with love,” she sighed, regarding Athos dismissively. “It does dull down how much the rhetoric is believed,” she said. “Ah, well. There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” she finished with a long stare at Anne. “Isn’t there.”

“What have you done?” Anne asked darkly.

“You know what I did, darling,” Marie replied. “I just gave your eldest what he deserves.”


	8. Something Wicked This way Comes

The violet and black smoke was still dissipating as Porthos stared between Anne and Marie, not sure what she meant when it came to ‘giving him what he needed’. He stared at Athos, taking hold of his hands to help haul himself to his feet, crashing into him and being grateful for Athos’ arm wrapped around his waist to keep him steady. 

Anne and Marie were facing off, which gave Porthos the opportunity to nod towards the enchanted dagger on the ground. He wouldn’t be quick enough to get to it, but maybe Athos could. “I don’t want to leave you on your own,” Athos murmured.

“Go,” Porthos ordered gruffly, trying to work his way through the protective circle of magic that surrounded the space where Aramis had been standing. He could only imagine what Marie had done and prayed that whatever it was, it wasn’t fatal. He pressed a hand to the ground to stabilize himself as he took off to help at Anne’s side, coaxing d’Artagnan nearer. Athos didn’t seem like he was going to leave, so he might as well be helpful.

_Stubborn bastard_ , thought Porthos, but he didn’t have time to fixate on how much he secretly appreciated that. 

He managed to scramble to Anne’s side, clasping her hand. They might not be able to actually vanquish Marie (none of them actually knew how powerful she’d grown), but they would at least be able to stun her temporarily.

She staggered back against the wall of force that the three of them projected, but as she stumbled awkwardly, she began to laugh raggedly and with sick delight. It made Porthos’ stomach turn in the most terrible of ways, knowing that whatever she was pleased about couldn’t be good news for them. 

“Porthos,” Athos barked from where the dark clouds were dissipating. He cast a look over his shoulder and decided he didn’t need to look any longer, based on the knife securely in Athos’ hand, but another look proved otherwise.

His hand slipped out from Anne’s and he felt the power dissipate away from the wall, allowing Marie to struggle free. There was a desperation thrumming in his blood that sent him after Athos to charge and wrap his arms around his waist to haul him back and away from the last lingering vestiges of power that were circling around Aramis -- or, rather, what had become of him. 

Porthos’ body shook with the shock of it all, not sure he was actually seeing what was in front of him (moreover, not sure he wanted to be seeing it). He shouldn’t have been surprised, though. After all, Marie had worked this magic before though he’d never seen it happen and now as he stared at the dark brown cat scratching furiously at the barrier keeping him in, he wondered how truly powerful the woman actually was. She’d obviously known this spell for ages. She’d had the power to transform Vincent into a familiar and now had woven her wicked way to do the same thing to Aramis.

There was a tight feeling in his chest as he wondered what would happen if he couldn’t figure out a way to undo the work. 

He turned on Marie, summoning up strength he didn’t realize he had at the moment. Drawn to full height, looming, he probably looked like a sight. “Undo it,” he said sharply. “Undo it and I won’t slit your throat.” 

It was a lie.

No matter whether she helped or not, Porthos planned to do away with her. He didn’t appear to be the only one with that idea, though. In the din of the madness, Porthos forgot that Athos still held claim to the knife. He didn’t seem so ready to give Marie the same chance. She was so focused on them that she didn’t see the way Athos flipped the knife with frightening ease in his hand, approaching with it clutched murderously in his fingers.

Porthos felt a flash of panic unlike any other. Instantly, all he could imagine was her doing the same to Athos -- or worse, given that he couldn’t imagine her patience would last that long. He had never run as far as he did as he bolted to Athos’ side, catching him just as he aimed to plunge the dagger into Marie’s heart. 

“Athos, no,” Porthos breathed out.

“You saw what she did to Aramis,” Athos said, the ice in his tone unmistakable. “She pays.”

“Careful, or this one will be a guard dog,” Marie laughed, as if the whole of the thing was still a joke to her. “He’s already halfway there.”

Porthos shoved Athos behind his back to get him out of harm’s way, taking two large steps back to continue to move them away from the line of fire. He reached for the knife, but Athos was stubbornly refusing to give it up. He pressed his forehead to Athos’ hard, wishing that he had the ability to project a thought into that idiotic, beautiful head of his. 

“She’ll pay,” Porthos murmured, so quiet that only Athos could hear, this pressed together in what looked like a plea for comfort. As they stood there, he slid his fingers slowly up Athos’ arm and kneaded pressure into his palm, trying to convince him to loosen up his grip on the knife. “Let us stun her first? Please? I really don’t want out first kiss to be one where you’ve got whiskers.”

“I suppose there’s some logic in that,” Athos replied, his gaze sliding to the side to narrow a glare at Marie, who seemed to think this gave her a respite -- that they were somehow scared of her or were about to back down when, really, Porthos could hear Anne in the back of his mind (that low-level ability she had always possessed) as she sent forth the exact words he needed to be speaking.

Pressing his forehead a little harder to Athos’, he felt his heart rate begin to pick up. He tracked Aramis with his eyes and made sure he was safe (safe as he could be, trying desperately to viciously claw at the woman who had done this to him and going nowhere for the protective circle around him). Once done, he readied himself for the awareness that with Louis approaching cautiously, this was going to be the end.

Whether they won or lost, it ended now because they had already forced her hand.

Porthos eased away from Athos only the slightest of inches, keeping one hand on his waist to keep him from doing anything rash, but he turned to defer to Louis, even if he always suspected it was Anne who was the mastermind behind their plans. That chant in the back of his mind was growing and it didn’t leave him with any doubt as to what they were doing.

They had to find a way to stun Marie and rob her of her power.

And then take the dagger to her heart.

He didn’t want to force that on anyone, not even himself, but in order to protect his family, friends, the town, and the two men he’d grown to call so extremely dear, he would do anything -- even if it left a stain on his hands for the rest of his life. 

“One last chance, mother,” Louis said. He sounded like he was desperate to find some sort of solution that didn’t end with blood. “You came back here for the house, you came back and in the process you harmed my family. I will give you one last chance to leave here and never return.”

“You know I can’t do that,” she chided.

“Then I’m very sorry,” Louis choked out, his voice shaking as he took hold of Anne’s hand, clasping it as hard as he could as he stepped up to close his eyes, beginning the low repetition of powerful, ancient words. Though the first iteration was shaky, by the time he hit the third he was strong and firm with them, no doubt about what they had to do.

Anne had been murmuring them the whole time in tandem with d’Artagnan and now it was Porthos’ turn to join. 

“You know what to do,” he said to Athos, an encouraging nod given and all his trust placed in this awful, panicked, sudden plan. He had to pray and hope that it wasn’t too late for them. He closed his eyes so tightly that he wouldn’t even be tempted to watch, casting the spell with all his heart and love poured into it.

He could still hear Aramis howling and hissing angrily in his periphery, praying and chanting and losing himself to the combined power the four of them held. He couldn’t dare to look, but he could feel the power begin to build around them, creating a force that was enough to give him _hope_ for the first time all day.

Porthos could feel himself weakening somewhat, his strength sapped as the words took shape and the spell began to weave its way through reality. Marie might have been fine if they had been weakened -- maybe if she had killed Porthos and split Louis and Anne apart. Maybe then she might have lived.

He kept a steady gaze on her and saw the instant it occurred to her that she might not win.

“Louis,” she pled, faint and desperate. “My _son_. Why are you doing this?”

“Because you hurt people,” d’Artagnan spat out. “You hurt Louis, you hurt Porthos, you’ve hurt Aramis, and you’ll wreck this town apart and the world if we let you.”

His passionate diatribe was enough to get Marie’s attention on him and she shook her head, as if rueing the lack of attention she had paid to him. It meant that while their magic worked to bind her in place, Athos was able to slowly creep around her silently, moving as if he understood that his very life depended on being quiet. 

“Such passionate boys,” she said, lifting a hand to raise it to cup d’Artagnan’s cheek, raising the right to do the same with Porthos. “What I could have done if you’d let me have them. If only you had given them up when I’d asked.”

“Attempted murder, twiceover, isn’t much asking,” Anne replied icily, stepping forward to press a protective hand in front of the both of them, as if she could offer a shield. “Their home is here, with us.”

“Love is a weak thing, Anne,” Marie remarked. “It dwindles in the face of power.”

Except that Porthos knew better. He watched the glint of a powered-up knife as it caught the sun’s light off the edge and watched as Athos plunged it into the heart of a woman who defined malevolent, as far as he was concerned. Porthos should have minded the closed expression on Athos’ face or the ease in which he had made the strike, but Porthos knew, without doubt, that it was love that helped Athos’ hand to fly so fast.

Marie seemed shocked by the sudden assault, staggering forward as she exhaled a sharp gust of breath, but no more. Blood beginning to pool on her lower lip, staining it crimson, her wild-eyed look turned to Louis and Anne, turning to d’Artagnan and Porthos next. Louis couldn’t meet her eye, but d’Artagnan and Anne held strong and resolute.

Porthos was at Athos’ side in an instant.

“He’s got strength, that one,” Marie choked out, raising two fingers to her lips to kiss the blood. “Lavender, sage, and two days boiling with a potion in a cauldron. Not bad,” she remarked, her knees buckling on her as she collapsed into the dusty ground. The protective circle around Aramis’ feline form had weakened and given him escape. 

His first stop was to Marie’s heels, but after a particularly vicious nip, he bolted behind Porthos’ ankles. Porthos tried not to think about what might happen if they couldn’t figure out how to reverse the spell, focusing on watching as Marie’s aura began to dwindle until it was so dim that it seemed like it would take no effort at all to extinguish.

“Are you sorry?” Louis demanded, as if he couldn’t let his mother go out without at least finding out. “Do you regret it? Any of it?”

Not dead yet, still breathing, Marie choked out a wry laugh and kept those watchful eyes on her son through her last breaths, but not a single apology or word of remorse passed her lips. Porthos felt the swift stab of how _awful_ that was for the man who had been like a very buoyant, strange father to him over the years. He watched as d’Artagnan reached over to squeeze Louis’ hand firmly, pressing his weight against his side.

Porthos would have helped, but right now Athos was the only thing standing between him and the ground as he felt like he might be sick and pass out, all in one breath.

“Is she gone?” d’Artagnan asked quietly when Marie was still on the ground. “Her spirit, too?”

Porthos shook his head, able to see the traces of it dissipating too slowly in the air. “Not yet,” he said. “We’ll have to salt the ground and bury her under iron.” He knew that Marie probably had a dozen safeguards in place to prevent her death from being total, but he trusted Anne and Louis to prevent it.

He had other work to do.

Storming over to where Vincent lay unconscious on the ground, still in his human form, he bent down to grab the enchanted collar from off his neck, feeling vindictive pleasure when his head hit the ground with a good deal of force. He turned around and gave Athos a fretful, unsure look. It felt like it was too much to cope with at once -- suddenly finding out one of your boyfriends was not only a witch, but one who had cast a love spell.

Then suddenly people are murdered, turned into familiars, and there’s a lot of blood on the ground for what can’t be more than a sixth date.

Crouching to his knees, Porthos tried to coax Aramis closer. 

“Will that work?” Athos asked from his shoulder.

“I’ve got a couple spells I can try,” Porthos said, but he didn’t like withholding the truth. “Trouble is, none of them work permanently. “What she did took a piece of his soul and twisted it into a witch’s familiar. I can change him back, but I don’t know that the little piece won’t always be there.”

“Change him back for a start,” Athos said, letting his hand sink down to squeeze Porthos’ shoulder in comfort. “We can work from there.”

Aramis was cautious as he approached, sniffing the ground as if he was taking in the world around him for the first time. His hesitance gave Porthos the opportunity to crane his neck upwards and take in Athos.

“Are you okay?” he asked warily, given that he was fairly sure you didn’t murder someone and be _okay_ with it. Except, he didn’t exactly know how to cope with that. No one really gave you a handbook on how to deal with that.

Athos shook his head slightly. “I think Dammarie needs a psychiatrist,” he deadpanned, but nudged Porthos gently. “Go on, I think he trusts us now.”

“I’m gonna put this on you,” Porthos told the small cat before him as he lifted up the collar, stroking his fingers steadily through the fur and helplessly smiling fondly for the purr it elicited from Aramis. “Then we’ll have to go back to Athos’ place. We need a place of strong emotion and a few things, but luckily he’s got them in his kitchen.” 

He clipped on the collar and rose to his feet with Aramis still in his arms, giving Athos a fond look, closing the distance between them as he let gravity, destiny, and so much desire pull him the last few steps before kissing Athos with all the pent-up need he’d been storing for so very long. He didn’t get very deep into the kiss (though Athos was clearly willing given how he drifted into Porthos’ space) because a small, hairy paw interfered by batting his cheek.

The _look_ on Aramis’ little cat face was the most offended and hurt look Porthos had ever seen.

“Apparently he does get jealous,” Athos deadpanned, but threaded his fingers in atop Porthos’ through Aramis’ fur, which seemed to settle him somewhat. “Are we good to go back to my place?”

Porthos glanced warily to his family, not liking leaving them. “Do you need help?” he asked, with the heavy intonation that he could stay.

Anne shook her head. “You have work of your own to do. We’ll take care of things. Come home to us tonight, though? I know you boys will have lots to talk about, lots to share, so feel free to bring them, but I’d really like my family under one roof.”

He nodded his vow. “I swear,” he promised, knowing that there was nothing in the world that could keep him from holding onto that promise. 

Athos nodded as well, as if his vow was just as important (and, bless her, but Anne seemed to honestly take that into account as much as Porthos’ promise). Curling Aramis a little tighter into his arms and leaning into Athos’ strengthening touch, he allowed himself to be steered back towards the farmhouse.

His mind was buzzing the entire time, still unsure whether everything had actually happened or whether he was still dreaming. Marie was dead. Marie was dead and she had cast a spell to twist part of Aramis’ soul that was still unsolved. Athos had been the one to kill Marie and now they were safe, weren’t they?

If you counted safe as having an unsolved spell and a potential case of PTSD, then, yeah, they were safe. 

Porthos barely paid attention to his surroundings as they walked, so caught up with a checklist of important things to be monitored and thought about and checked. He only realized that they had arrived when Athos laid a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, moving his fingers to tangle with the fur of Aramis’ small little body after. Standing on the porch, Porthos finally _felt_ safe. The emotions left him in a sudden rush, escaping and leaving him clinging to the last shreds of an adrenaline high that he’d been convinced couldn’t be shaken for hours.

Athos didn’t take his eyes off them for a single moment as he worked the key into the lock, raising one arm out. “I’ll take him while you prepare everything,” he said, though there was an awkward look on his face, half like Athos still didn’t believe quite how insane his life had become.

Porthos transferred him off with a grateful nod, heading for the kitchen to start pulling out herbs that he didn’t really remember being there last week.

One curious look at Athos was all he needed to get his answer.

“After I found out what you are and the things you can do, I might have gone shopping with Anne’s help.” Athos arranged himself on the thick, plush, corduroy armchair, stroking Aramis’ fur as they curled up together. He gave an elegant shrug when Porthos’ fond expression couldn’t be changed. “If you’re going to be in my life, I figured I should make sure I have all the things that suit your practice.”

It was such a small thing that he didn’t have to do, but Porthos found himself amazed at how he adored the man for it. He tried to clear the lump in his throat, but found it had settled itself securely, as if informing him that if he was going to be in love with Athos and Aramis, he ought to get used to it.

Instead of idling on thoughts of a future, Porthos thrust himself into the present to pay attention to the spell at hand. He’d brewed up three different versions in glasses, an hour’s work into each. By the time he was through, he felt the last of his energy slipping away from him, but knew he was ready to try. Even if it took every last ounce from him, he refused to let Aramis wait a single second more.

He found Athos half asleep when he returned and Aramis was fully out like a light, curled up comfortably in Athos’ lap. 

Settling down in front of the both of them, Porthos set the three glasses in front of him. Each was exceedingly strong, all of them filled with magic that he needed in other to bind the spell to an object. In this case, the collar around Aramis’ neck. It would hold the spell, but also a piece of Aramis’ soul and so he could continue to live on, but would wear it. He would also still have the ability to switch between cat and human, if Porthos did this right. 

Athos handed him over wordlessly and excused himself from the chair so that Porthos could work. The first potion did nothing, not even in combination with several spells. Porthos fought past the awful worry that none of this would work, charging on to the second, a more potent thing that had an awful kick of a smell.

This one, though, had better luck. From the first syllable of the spell, magic began to work in the room, surrounding Aramis. Porthos let the hope infect him and continued on, stronger than before. He only found more strength when Athos reached both hands down onto his shoulders, squeezing firmly. By the time the last verse had been written, Porthos could see Aramis’ body stretching out even beyond the pale gold light in the room, stretching limbs out and losing fur and…

...leaving a very naked man on Athos’ armchair.

Porthos opened his mouth to express relief at seeing Aramis again, but he didn’t get the chance. The moment his lips parted, Aramis bolted off the chair like he still possessed a cat’s grace (which, he did, Porthos supposed) and pinned Porthos flat on the coffee table, shaking the other glasses. 

“You’re back,” Porthos said with immense relief, winding his fingers through Aramis’ messy hair to haul him flush against his body for the kiss he’d been waiting for since the day they’d met. He scrambled with one hand to track down Athos, finding him by the knee of his trousers, using that to haul himself and Aramis up into a sitting position.

Aramis looked distinctly displeased, considering he was in Porthos’ lap. “I’ll be coughing up hairballs for weeks,” he noted, eyes sliding upwards to catch Athos’ gaze. “Are you all right? It’s not every day you murder someone.”

“I think we all have adjusting to do,” Athos said, his eyes pointedly on the collar around Aramis’ neck.

With his attention drawn to it, now, Aramis touched the object and though his lips were still smiling, the worry lingered in his eyes. “At least we’re alive to do it,” he said, stroking his fingers over Porthos’ back in such a manner that combined with his exhaustion and relief, was nearly putting him to sleep. 

“Alive and exhausted,” Athos said. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I could use a week’s worth of rest.”

“I believe we ought to get a head start on that in your very large bed,” Aramis said, rising from Porthos’ lap and wandering in the direction of the bedroom without a lick of clothing. Porthos couldn’t help the way he was entranced by the sway of his hips as he walked, not to mention the round of his arse. “Are you both coming?”

_Not soon enough_ , thought Porthos, but he was quick to rise to his feet, giving Athos a shove in the direction of the bedroom. Athos passed him in the doorway and went to collect up Aramis in his arms on the bed, indulging in a kiss that was probably a long time coming in the day.

Porthos wanted to do nothing more than stand there and watch how Athos’ hand carefully slid up Aramis’ side, leaving the faintest of paths that vanished seconds later. Aramis twisted his head to press a line of kisses up Athos’ neck, but his gaze was fixed on Porthos, expectantly looking at him.

“Well?” Aramis coaxed.

Porthos huffed out a tired laugh, crawling onto the bed and curling up behind Athos. “I want to. You have no idea how much I want to, but I actually don’t know if I’m physically capable of getting it up right now,” he admits, given how much energy he’s had to use all day. It doesn’t seem to have affected either of the other two, though, given how Aramis’ cock is already pressed against Athos’ hip and the bulge in Athos’ jeans is a quick giveaway. “Hell,” he growls, licking his lips. “What’s one more way to use my mouth?” He looks between the both. “I’m not sure which of you deserves it more right now.”

“Multitasking is one of life’s joys,” Athos reminds them.

“Quite right,” Aramis concurs. “Porthos, why don’t we stagger. Athos at the top of the bed, with me in the middle, and you at the bottom. And if you’re too tired tonight to find pleasure, then just know you’ll receive it doubly in the morning.”

“Athos?” Porthos asked, peering upwards.

“Lie back and get sucked off?” Athos echoed. “Do you really expect me to say no?”

“Well, we did just start dating, you never know someone’s quirks,” Porthos replied, but he was already curling up at the base of the bed, watching from his perfect vantage point as Aramis stripped Athos of his belt and his jeans, boxers following next. In his languid, hazy state, he felt blissed out and like he’d never seen anything so perfect before.

Athos, from the top of the bed, was staring at the both of them wondrously. 

Porthos could hardly imagine why. After all, in the course of a few weeks of attempting to date, things had gone so disastrously that he felt like they could win a world record for most awful relationship. And yet, at the same time, there was something so intoxicating and exciting and Porthos had to wonder whether it was because of the magic or just because he’d met the right people.

Not content to sit back and allow Aramis to have all the fun, Porthos decided to get involved, surging up to press a line of kisses slowly up Aramis’ thigh, nipping and growing more aggressive when he got to the hip, sucking a mark there that he’d be more than happy to rub and aggravate later.

“Oh good god,” Aramis gasped, pausing in disrobing Athos to stare down. “I don’t know if I’m overly sensitive or your mouth is that wonderful, but _do not stop_.”

Porthos had no intention of it, though he very much wanted to stare up as Aramis began to push Athos’ trousers down, pressing his own shaky kisses down the man’s chest until he was low enough to work his mouth around the head of Athos’ length, working it down slow and steady and deep.

“You two look incredible,” he murmured, stunned by how taken he was by the sight of it, sliding his palms steadily up and down Aramis’ thighs as he slid his nose along the curve of his hip and worked to echo Aramis’ movements as exactly as he could. 

When Aramis curled his tongue and then surged to take Athos deep, Porthos mimicked until he could hear Aramis’ startled gasp, moments after Athos’ invective swearing at a volume Porthos hadn’t expected.

Porthos eased off when Athos let fly a whole stream of combinations that Porthos had never even thought of before in his life. “Look at the mouth on you,” Porthos admired, but when Aramis gave a frustrated whine, Porthos chuckled low and amused, grasping him by the hips as he used the leverage to crawl up his body, able to take him all the deeper for it. 

“I’m more impressed by the mouth on the both of you right now,” Athos managed, in between Aramis’ devoted attentions.

Porthos peered up to see the blissful look on Athos’ face, the steady concentrated expression on Aramis’, and took the both as inspiration. The world faded out from around him, as if he only had ever wanted to focus on this and this alone. He used Aramis’ responding moans as cues and encouragement, eager to learn every aspect of both these bodies.

It was only a shame they had to start today, when Porthos was so worn he could barely even keep up the pace, tongue slowing to a languid, steady rhythm when the adrenaline began to bleed off. He still felt everything, but it was a distant echo of a thing, like he was only getting them light years from when the events actually happened.

Aramis’ steady, pressured taps to his shoulders were enough to drag his attention upwards, to where Aramis was barely paying attention to Athos anymore. 

“Soon?” Porthos verified.

Aramis nodded frantically, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. What Porthos didn’t expect was for Athos to beat Aramis to it, until Aramis’ lips were slick and shiny and Porthos could only bear it for a moment before he used it as a last surge of energy, renewed enthusiasm spurring him. He hummed and sealed his lips tighter, pushed his fingers into Aramis’ hip tighter.

He held on for dear life because he’d found them and he refused to lose them. Finally, Aramis gave himself over, crying out Porthos’ name raggedly as he dug his hands into Porthos’ curls, stroking his thumb over the shell of his ear. When Porthos had swallowed everything, he crawled up the bed to where Athos lay exhausted and prone, Aramis completely collapsed atop him.

Idly playing with the collar, Porthos ran his fingers over it as the guilt began to swarm and take over.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking,” Athos sleepily advised, one eye half open and focused on Porthos, “you should stop.”

“This is all because of me,” Porthos said, quietly fierce. “How can I not feel guilt?”

“Because we chose to be at your side,” Aramis said, fumbling to get Porthos to join them. Porthos dug his heel into the sheets and clambered up until he could work himself into the middle of the both of them, taking advantage of the warmth of their bodies. “We could have walked away. Anything that happened after that moment is shared blame, shared guilt. Besides, I dislike blaming us when it’s really and truly Marie at fault,” he says pointedly.

Porthos wasn’t sure he was convinced, but he thought that pressed in his current position, he could be swayed.

“Aramis, you’re…”

“I’m going to have to adjust,” Aramis cut Porthos off in the most effective way (several chaste, firm kisses pressed to his lips). “Just as Athos is going to have to learn how to cope with his actions and you will have your own scars to bear,” he said, fingers tracing the now-permanent scar over Porthos’ eye. “We’ve also got the new waters of a relationship to explore.”

It all sounded like so much and he imagined the worry showed on his face.

“We’ll get there,” Athos sleepily promised, arm draped over Porthos’ chest to stroke at Aramis’ shoulder. “One day at a time. Now, go to sleep,” he coaxed. “It’s been an awful and long day and Anne is expecting us, remember?”

Porthos groaned and burrowed his head into Athos’ neck stubbornly. “Do we have to?”

“I dare not risk her opinion of us becoming tainted,” Aramis noted archly, though even he sounded worn and exhausted. “Let’s all rest. In a few hours, we’ll be new people.” He tugged the blankets a little higher around all three of their bodies and Porthos was happy to let himself begin to drift away to the comfortable, easy touches. 

When he dreamt, this time, they were happy and hopeful things.

The dark still lurked in the corner of his vision, but it was easy to control and it wasn’t enough to make Porthos feel any fear. It was something he could learn to live with. 

And with Aramis and Athos in his dreams to make them even brighter, Porthos knew there was nothing that was coming that they couldn’t handle, even if it set them back. They were stronger, together. 

And Porthos could honestly see the rest of his life with them, like this, _together_. That thought, above all the others, set him off to the happiest dreams he’d had in _years_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is still one more chapter to go, so it's not over yet!


	9. ever minding the law of three

**Two Weeks After**

Porthos should have known that something was the matter when Athos passed him in the hallway with a look of warning on his face. “Careful,” Athos advised, gesturing with his chin to the bathroom. “He’s in a mood.”

Aramis’ _moods_ had been fairly frequent since Marie had been laid to rest, not helped by the fact that he didn’t seem to have any control over his new ability. Worse, it seemed that when Marie had moved on, all the power and magic she’d held had pulsed into the atmosphere. 

Things in the town were so much more different than they’d ever been. Porthos could feel the renewed magic energy in his veins and there were even those in town who had never shown any skill before that now possessed low level abilities. It also meant that Aramis was switching from cat to human and back on a near hourly basis. “He switched when treating a child,” Athos explained quietly, for the sudden mood today. “Luckily, young Henri was delighted. Aramis isn’t so pleased.”

Porthos probably would’ve laughed too. 

Athos cast him a _Look_. “Don’t do that in front of him.”

Athos was also one of those affected by Marie’s dispelling of magic in the air. Never having had talents before, his intuitive nature had somehow now translated to a low-level ability to read mood and the most surface of thoughts (a skill that Porthos had only ever known Anne to possess, previously). At times, it was incredibly helpful. At other moments, Porthos wondered if he ought to start investing in thought-shielding courses with Anne.

Porthos took a deep, steadying breath and reminded himself of what Aramis’ sharp claws had done to his favourite sweater just two days ago before knocking politely on the door. 

“Hey,” he greeted, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe and feeling that familiar happy chill through his body that reminded him of how utterly delighted he was with his life. He had two men that he was falling madly in love with, wasn’t about to get killed by poisonous familiars, and still had his family.

So they had a few bumps in the road to cope with, so what?

Aramis was scrubbing his hands fastidiously, though his knuckles were flexed as if he expected claws to retract at any moment. “Athos told you?”

“About Henri? Yeah,” Porthos agreed, sliding forward a slow step to wrap his arm around Aramis’ waist, lazily resting his chin on Aramis’ shoulder. “Was thinking maybe you should come with me to the house and we could see if Anne and Louis could offer any lessons.”

The look Aramis gave him in the mirror’s reflection was a dangerous one. “If I weren’t afflicted, I wouldn’t have to control it.”

The wave of guilt that hit Porthos was surely enough that Athos could feel it from ten rooms over, so he worked to tamp it down. Aramis was allowed to feel like this because it was a terrible thing that had happened to him. Instead, Porthos bowed his head a little lower, pressing slow kisses to Aramis’ bare neck, sliding his fingers over his hair.

“If this is meant to soothe me, it’s working,” Aramis assured. “Don’t stop.”

“Are you going to bite my head off anytime soon?”

“Not if you continue with that,” Aramis promised, and when he gave a very cat-like _purr_ , Porthos bit his inside cheek to avoid laughing. They remained in that position for a little while longer, until finally Aramis seemed more willing to relent. Sighing, he gave a nod of his head. It wasn’t much, but Porthos was attuned to him and Athos in such a hyper-sensitive way that it didn’t have to be. 

Easing back, he peered at him thoughtfully. “Okay?” Porthos verified.

Aramis grumbled and consented with a nod of his head. Peering out into the hallway, he gave Porthos a curious look. “Is he still in everyone’s minds?”

Porthos nodded, not sure how he felt about it yet. “Seems like Marie left parting gifts for nearly everyone.” He tried very hard to keep a block in his mind so as to keep Athos from winding his way in. He was fairly good about staying out, but thinking about him and his new skill was like putting a welcome mat out for him to visit.

Groaning, Aramis reached back for his shirt. “I’m going to visit your elders, but you’re not coming,” was all he said. To Porthos’ confused expression, he clarified, “To practice with me and Anne. You’re not coming yet. I don’t want you witnessing how utterly awful I am,” he said. “Once I’ve some practice, then you can linger all you’d like.”

“But not yet,” Porthos said.

“Not yet,” Aramis agreed. He began to bundle up his things and tugged awkwardly at his collar. When he passed Athos in the hallway, he instantly stopped the man with a single look and it wouldn’t have taken Athos’ new mind-reading abilities to know that Aramis was not to be stopped.

The slamming of the door was just one more domino in an awful game. Porthos lingered at the bathroom door with an uneasy feeling in his chest that made him feel like he’d failed both Aramis and Athos by dragging them into this. When Athos reached out to try and offer some sort of comfort, but the guilt didn’t let Porthos want to accept any of it. 

“I need to go open up the shop,” he said quietly.

“Porthos, it’s not your fault. We were actively involved in all of this, every step,” Athos said. Athos, who had been having nightmares. Athos, who kept shouting in the night about blood. Athos, who now could dip into the top layer of thoughts and skim whatever he liked.

Porthos shrugged. “You can be rational all you like. Doesn’t change what I’m feeling.” He did force himself to stop for a moment, stop and forget his guilt, and instead just focused on the soft, slow kiss he pressed to Athos’ lips, grateful that this calmed him down and slowed him down enough to stop feeling so awful.

At least, for all of five seconds.

“Anne will show him a few tricks,” he said, to give himself some peace of mind, but also for Athos’ sake.

“I don’t doubt it,” Porthos snorted, imagining what witchcraft Anne was happy to concoct. She was flourishing now that the town knew them for what they were. She said that she’d never had so many happy customers in her life.

Porthos wouldn’t put it past her to start up her own little school of young witches, all trained in the style of Anne and Louis, their legacy to the world. He reached forward to try and tug Athos into his arms, not willing to let him go just yet. 

Athos gave a soft exhalation of a laugh, studying him fondly. “I have my own work to attend to,” he said before Porthos could even ask him to join him at the shop. 

“In that case, hop one thought lower,” Porthos coaxed, squeezing his arse.

“Dinner with your parents, d’Artagnan and Constance,” Athos said after a moment of thought, his face scrunched up in a manner that he probably wouldn’t like to be told was adorable, but Porthos liked to tell the truth and the way it worked was, well, _adorable_. “Because you want me to get my own training,” he added ruefully.

Porthos shrugged, for once grateful that he didn’t have to say it out loud.

“It’s only that you sort of blush when you skim sexual fantasies from me and Aramis,” Porthos admitted, which he found completely arousing and hardly the worst fault in the world, but it also made him the most unproductive member of society ever. “And we can’t spend all our time making them come true, much as we’d both like to.”

Athos shook his head and pushed Porthos away, though he was smiling wryly. “You should go to work and so should I. The town will talk if we’re not there.”

“We live in a small town that just found out I’m a witch,” Porthos said in a deadpan. “They’re going to be talking about me long after I’m gone.” 

Athos tangled up his fingers in Porthos’ shirt to claim him for a firm, last kiss. “Make sure you’re not gone for a while, then, keep them talking through generations,” he said. Porthos tried to chase after him for another kiss, but stumbled when Athos removed himself from where he was last standing, in what was a completely unfair move.

“Aramis wouldn’t do this to me!” Porthos called after him as Athos began to gather his things.

“No, he might just transform against his will,” Athos replied, then waited a beat. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“What’ll you give me for it?”

Athos smirked and leaned in to whisper exactly what he planned to offer for Porthos’ secrecy, managing to get Porthos’ cheeks a ruddy shade, his trousers a touch tighter, and his disappointment greatly riled at the fact that Athos was leaving him in this condition. At least he had a promise that would make up for it, through all the long hours of the day.

“Fine,” Porthos grumbled. “Go. And you do need to practice,” he warned.

“Trust me, I’d like to stop hearing about Richelieu’s opinions just as much as you,” Athos assured. “I’ll see you later. Give my love to Aramis when you see him.”

“And other things,” Porthos guaranteed, and watched Athos depart for the day into their small little tumultuous town.

* * *

**Six Months After**

“Isn’t she lovely?” Anne cooed at the infant, who Aramis refused to give up. 

She had been brought into town by the child’s mother, a woman by the name of Ninon who was being persecuted for her witchcraft and who had needed a place to stay temporarily until they could come up with an escape plan for her and the child. What it meant was that Athos grew ten times as uncomfortable in the presence of the child, Porthos became more a big brother than ever before, and both men discovered Aramis’ paternal streak.

It was, frankly, a bit surprising and terrifying.

“I’m a nurturer,” Aramis remarked, swaying side to side with the child in his arms. Little Sophie happily grasped Aramis’ hair as they walked, a lullaby being hummed under his breath. “I’ve always wanted children.”

Anne looked up approvingly from where she was sitting with Ninon beside them, meeting Porthos’ eye eagerly as if to praise him for his choice in men. Never mind that he was still far too young to be considering family of his own and Athos still looked like he might melt if asked to hold the child.

“We’re a bit young for that,” Porthos warned Anne, both to placate her and to prevent Athos from having a stroke. Then, though, he remembered Aramis and turned his warmest smile on him. “I didn’t say never. I want kids, too, someday.” To Athos, he gave him a firm look. “ _Someday_.”

Wrangling two boyfriends at once was something that Porthos was getting used to, but the good news about a magic spell helping attract your other pieces towards you was that on a fundamental level, everything worked. Of course there were arguments and problems, there were hills to climb and wounds to sew, but beneath it all they had a strong base of love and understanding.

“You will have to give her back, Aramis,” Athos warned.

“Eventually,” Aramis sighed, as though genuinely distressed when it came to the notion of not getting to keep the wayward child. He glanced at Anne curiously. “Is she a witch? Can you tell at this age?”

Porthos tried not to pay too much attention to the answer, curious himself as to when Anne could tell and how much she’d been able to sense when she had taken him in. 

Anne drifted towards the baby, sliding her ringed fingers over the fuzzy hair, so fond as she lifted Sophie into her arms. “I can always tell,” she said. Ninon would be back soon and they would have to give back the child, but Porthos was basking in the uncomplicated warmth of Aramis’ happiness, which he didn’t often exude anymore. “I could tell with you the first minute I laid eyes on you, Porthos. I knew you were so strong, both in character and in power.”

Porthos stared at the ground, not used to this level of praise.

He cleared his throat and shrugged. “I wasn’t any good at anything until you taught me. I still can’t chant the way you and d’Artagnan do and Louis’ potions have got mine beat.”

“And yet, you hardly need words or charms or potions,” Anne said off-hand, as if she was just commenting on the natural state of things. “Funny, that.”

Porthos knew that protesting only made Anne more prone to compliments, so instead he chose to ignore her and reach out towards the baby, knowing that if he appealed to the part of her that wanted grandchildren, she might stop insisting. Of course, he also should have known that by taking young Sophie tightly in against his chest, he was earning a whole different sort of admiration.

“I’ve never heard you sigh like that before,” Porthos accused Aramis, who had a hand pressed over his heart and a stupid look on his face. He looked to Athos to coax him to join in on the teasing, but Athos had a particular look to him. “Not you, too,” he said.

“As uncomfortable as they make me feel, there’s something rather touching and warm about the way you hold one,” Athos confessed. “Maybe because it’s a reminder of how you hold us, too.”

Porthos flushed until his cheeks were overheated and bright with pink spots, trying not to smile too deeply, but he was a lost cause by the time little Sophie jammed a tiny finger in against his dimples. He shook his head and passed the child back to Anne, knowing that they couldn’t stay much longer or he was going to start wanting one, despite knowing it wasn’t even close to the right time.

Poking at Aramis’ shoulder, he nudged him towards the door as best as he could.

“We’ll come back later to see Ninon off,” Porthos said, handing Athos his coat and Aramis his scarf (despite Aramis’ growing confidence in his abilities, he still preferred to cover up). 

“And the baby, of course,” Aramis said with a charming, winsome smile.

“And the baby,” Athos echoed with a sigh that spoke of giving in. 

The trouble of it was that Porthos knew when Athos was being difficult for difficulties sake and the way the corners of his lips curved up and his eyes brightened was proof enough that he was starting to come around to the idea. Not that Porthos or Aramis would ever accuse him of such a thing. 

Baby steps, after all.

* * *

**Ten Years After**

Porthos returned home from a long, long day at the shop. The energy in the town was bursting and not in a good way. Everything around them was reacting to it, but not in a good way. His plants were dying and while he had been able to save most of them, it was taking so much of his magical and mental energy that he felt half like he was falling apart. The other bad sign was that when he came home, Aramis was prowling the yard back and forth, standing guard of the house.

Porthos crouched down to try and coax Aramis into his arms, but the look he received was an awful one -- the mood was one of those persistent ones.

“Don’t mind him,” Athos said, as Porthos hung up his coat. “I think it’s the ten year anniversary of Marie’s death. Something billowing in the air, like her spirit is sending off aftershocks even now,” he finished, peering over Porthos’ shoulder to where Aramis was still haunting the yard. “And you know he always gets angry around the anniversary.”

Porthos did know that. It was the one time of year when his guilt ran the highest and he didn’t exactly know what to do with himself. He’d thought, really, that this long afterwards, some of that guilt might have started to dissipate, but it’s as fresh as when the wounds had been made.

“Maybe some catnip will help my case,” Porthos joked, sagging into Athos’ arms without an invitation. Every muscle in his body ached and he didn’t know how much longer he meant to stand, but this was good. This, right here, was perfect. Athos wasn’t a very tactile man, but he was precise and knew how to get right to what Porthos wanted.

Right now, Porthos wanted soothing affection and Athos got right to the point, rubbing a hand over his back. 

“Is everything alive?” Athos finally asked, when Porthos felt Aramis winding in around their feet. It looked like all it took was five minutes of affection and he was back to wanting to be part of things. 

Porthos nodded. “They did their best to die, but Constance helped me work some magic without any actual magic. The things she can do with a watering can,” he said wryly, stepping back to give Aramis a touch of space. “I really want to kiss you, but could do without the hairball,” he informed him, hiding his smile of private smug delight when Aramis shifted -- human, naked, and standing in the space left between Athos and Porthos. “There he is,” Porthos said warmly, cupping Aramis’ cheek to give him a fond kiss.

“He’s getting whiskery, even in human form,” Athos noted, palming Aramis’ arse and giving it a squeeze before he made his way to the kitchen to pour drinks.

“You like my beard,” Aramis protested.

“We do,” Athos agreed. “We just don’t know why you shaved it, leaving us to cope with the growing out period.”

Aramis’ expression darkened. “I won’t tell you what I ate as a feline that made me want nothing potentially getting caught around my lips for a while,” he said, accepting the sweatpants that Porthos handed him, Porthos’ fingers absently running over the collar. 

“You gonna tell us about your mood?” Porthos asked.

Aramis glanced between Athos and Porthos, shrugging too carelessly and with too much show. It was definitely a sign that something was happening or had happened and now, Porthos was going to be stubborn about it. Athos was hardly going to let go, either, and between the two of them, Aramis was definitely going to buckle.

“I was having dinner with the parents,” Aramis began (and Porthos tried so, so hard not to fight the shiver that went through him when Aramis called them his and Athos’). “And Louis mentioned something about anniversaries possessing a stronger magic than any other time. In combination with the power Marie released and the lines this town runs on, this one time of the year, these weeks around the date, things might be possible that weren’t before.”

“Things?” Athos echoed.

“Things like undoing a familiar’s spell,” Aramis said, his eyes sliding over to Porthos. “With someone attuned to me, the family’s magic, and with a power tied to the earth of his own.”

“Me?” Porthos realized. “You want me to try and undo the spell.”

“Try?” Aramis said, shaking his head. “No, Porthos, I want you to undo it.”

That assumed that Porthos would be able to do something that he hadn’t been able to in ten long years, despite having searched persistently and without fail. So why was this time so special? Why was this anniversary so much more meaningful than the rest? He already knew why. This was the first time that Aramis had overheard Louis rambling and had decided that something could happen.

The trouble was that Porthos was willing to do absolutely anything, no matter whether it would end up breaking Aramis heart in the long run.

“How much time do you think I have?” he finally asked, consenting to this mad idea.

“Porthos…” Athos said quietly. “Are you sure? If it doesn’t work…”

“Then I will be stuck like this,” Aramis cut him off. “I’m already stuck like this, Athos. At least we’re going to actively try and do something about it. Porthos, I’m not sure how long, so obviously time is of the essence.”

“Yeah, well, sorry I don’t want to make it worse by rushing,” Porthos snapped at him. “You have to give me at least a day or two to get my things together and try to make sure I’m not going to hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt you,” he finished, softening a touch from his outburst. “Look, I don’t want to disappoint you either.”

“But you’ll try,” Aramis insisted, his eyes wild with a determination that Porthos hadn’t seen in a very long time. 

Porthos nodded, not sure whether there was any other answer. “Yeah,” he said, stroking his fingers through Aramis’ hair as if to quell the growing pit of nerves that was beginning to bundle in his stomach. “Yeah, I’ll try. I’ll always try for you.” He gave Athos a wry look, knowing he shouldn’t push his luck, but he couldn’t help himself. “Anything you want off your plate?”

Athos kept close, but allowed the two of them to have their moment. “I actually like the low-level telepathy. Makes it so much easier sifting through the half-truths owners give me when they tell me what the pet is actually there for. And I find it quite handy in the bedroom.”

“Yes, I do like that part,” Aramis was quick to pipe up now. “That part can stay.”

Porthos drew away from Aramis’ hold on him. No matter how much he wanted to stay there, Aramis had tasked him with the near impossible and Porthos knew that he had a duty to at least try his damnedest to do right by him. He shook his head, still in disbelief at the things these men could convince him to do. Then again, he also never really understood how he deserved two men as good as they were, so maybe it all balanced in the end.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Porthos warned as he fetched his coat. That was said to Aramis, but also to Athos, since he knew the latter would prevent it from happening. “No going to d’Artagnan or trying spells out for yourselves. Sit here, be patient.”

And in two days, he would try for better or worse.

He left them with that thought in his mind, storming back home and slamming the front door with all his might to try and get across some of his displeasure with the situation.

“Louis,” Anne said knowingly. “He’s here.” Porthos kept walking until he found her in the kitchen drying several bowls, Louis sitting at the table with a look on his face like he was anticipating a blow. “I thought for sure you’d be here sooner. It’s been a day already.”

“Turns out Aramis had some thinking to do,” Porthos said, but his attention was zoned in on his foster father. “You told him that I could undo the spell.”

Louis held up a finger, like he wanted to protest the semantics. “No, I didn’t,” he rushed to say. “I said that magic is very powerful on anniversaries and that occasionally spells that might not work otherwise can work. Your beloved took that to mean that it would work.”

Porthos gave them both a disbelieving look. “He’s asked me to undo it. What if I can’t? What if he’s still stuck and I gave him enough hope to hang himself with?”

Louis’ privately overjoyed smile was definitely not suited for the occasion and Porthos didn’t have near enough the patience to wait it out. When he turned to get an explanation from Anne, she had a similar look of eager, bursting news. 

“Out with it,” he sighed.

“Well, at first we were only speaking in hypotheticals,” Anne admitted. “But when Aramis took off in a tear, I suppose we started thinking of it more realistically and started to amass the things we’d need.” She ducked over, brushing her skirts away to fetch a box, setting it on the table. It was like some demented cooking show display, showing him the ingredients he needed to make it so one of his boyfriends wouldn’t be a cat for perpetuity. 

Porthos leaned over to peer inside and the first thing he saw was a small collection of bones.

“Those are hers, aren’t they?” he asked, feeling unsure how to feel about this, given that small bones from bodies weren’t uncommon in the house. There were other herbs, strands of hair, old chalices, and more inside, but the bones were definitely the strangest part -- that or the cat fangs that Porthos hoped valiantly didn’t belong to Aramis.

Louis and Anne exchanged a look, but said nothing.

Instead, Louis pushed the box towards him. “Your mother found you a spell,” he said. “Athos may need to help to provide you an anchor to the world, but we think it actually might work.”

“Did you think that before you ran your mouth at him?” Porthos wondered.

“So good luck!” Louis brightly said, ignoring Porthos’ question completely (which was a guaranteed _yes_ if ever Porthos had heard one) and giving him a push towards the door. “No time to waste, the closer to the moment of death, the more powerful the magic in the air. Go on, hurry! Shoo!”

Porthos turned to give Anne a wary look.

“You heard the man,” she said, clearly enraptured in this wild scheme. “Good luck! Bring him by after no matter what happens. I’ll have the gin and the cards out.”

Porthos wanted to ask whether she’d read them, but imagined the better notion would just be to go and try out the spell for himself -- rather than just glimpsing the future, better to go and live it. Porthos bundled up the things and loaded up his truck. 

On the route home, he practiced about a dozen explanations and speeches, but when it came time, he didn’t know that he needed to say anything at all. Aramis and Athos were waiting for him on the porch swing and Porthos wasn’t sure whether Athos had heard him coming or whether the both of them truly knew him that well.

Porthos closed the door and thought that they were the most gorgeous things he’d ever seen, perched in front of their home like that. He leaned his hip against the car and beckoned the both of them with a crook of his finger. “Unless you don’t want to go and try to get rid of your permanent flea problem,” he called over.

Aramis’ eyes lit up and he bolted from the swing, shifting two steps into his stride, before shifting back (he had learned, finally, to keep his clothes through it, though the amount of energy it took was _exhausting_ , as Aramis had dramatically put it). Athos came at a slower pace, dragging Porthos away from the car.

“You don’t need to answer verbally,” Athos began. “But you do need to answer. Do we have something to try?”

Porthos nodded.

“And do you think it will actually work?”

Again, he nodded, but with a second more hesitation than before.

Athos seemed to take the answer as good enough and climbed into the car after Aramis, settled in the back seat. Porthos felt like a cab driver, but he knew he didn’t have very far to go, driving towards the town square and the exact spot it’d all happened. Of course, this did mean that if they failed, Porthos was in for some very public humiliation, but they could always move.

(Louis, Anne, and d’Artagnan might kill him, but he could always move).

Porthos peered into the box and began to set out the stones in a circle around the grave marker (forever blackened like small pieces of Marie would never leave). Before he laid the last of the stones, he nodded for Aramis to head inside. Before he could take the last step, though, Porthos tangled up his fingers in Aramis’ shirt, pulling him in close so that he could steal a kiss.

“Don’t kiss me like that,” Aramis chastised softly.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m going somewhere. I’m not,” Aramis promised, but the hope in his eyes would be heartbreaking if Porthos couldn’t undo what had been done. “We succeed or we don’t, but I stay here with the both of you.”

“Unless I turn you into a newt,” Porthos joked.

“We have to talk about your sense of humour at inappropriate times,” Athos evenly commented from his shoulder. “Aramis, get inside the circle. Porthos, stop acting like you’re sending him off for his funeral.” 

Porthos can’t shake the bad feeling, but he allowed Aramis to step inside, beginning to collect the contents of the box and setting them up at each rock like odd little stations of the cross. With each one, he murmured a soft verse, blessing them as he began to seal the circle. He could already feel the energy in the air and that was when he turned to Athos, knowing he couldn’t do this alone.

“You need to anchor me here,” Porthos said. “On this plane.”

“How?” Athos asked.

“Touch might do, but with your skill, you could build a bridge from your mind to mine,” Porthos said. “That’d do the same. Anchor me,” he said, and closed his eyes until he could feel the hitch, like Athos had reached out and grabbed the back of his shirt with both hands, unwilling to let go. Once he felt that security, he began to tug on the line. 

He finished with the circle, sealing Aramis inside the remnants of Marie and Vincent’s life, the family history that came before Porthos, and all the extra power he could pack. 

Opening his eyes, Porthos latched onto Aramis -- and through him, so did Athos -- and it was like a bolting surge of power electrified him, connecting the three of them the way they had been since Porthos was no more than a young man, wishing for his loves. He knew, now, that he had to try this for Aramis but also for himself.

Because he couldn’t keep living with the guilt -- not for the rest of his life, not when he had such plans.

The rhythm of the spell that Anne had given him was taxing and complex. The words were unlike any Porthos had said in years and it felt like coming back to an old, dusty library to blow off the covers of the books, trying to find something safe and familiar. Porthos’ safety was Athos’ mind with his, Aramis’ gaze on him. With the both of them, Porthos channelled every ounce and pushed through.

Three times, the spell had to be cast. 

On the first turn, the air around them began to charge and the items surrounding them began to lift up through Porthos’ levitation of them, the words bleeding out the energy from the items. He knew that this was their only chance -- that everything they collected would be lost to them if they didn’t complete it.

The second turn had Porthos nearly losing energy, to the point that Athos had to become a physical anchor for him, as well, bracing him up while Porthos worked the words into the right order and pattern and rhythm. By the second, Aramis had begun to twist and turn, curled on himself like he was in pain.

Porthos couldn’t pay attention to that. If he did, he might stop. If he stopped, all would be lost.

The third turn happened in a bright blur and when the last word was uttered, a crack of thunder blasted through the centre of town, so loud that Porthos and Athos were thrown staggering back, away from the circle and away from Aramis.

Exhausted, finished, but so desperate to know if it had worked, Porthos prodded at Athos. “Go,” he encouraged, because he felt like he couldn’t do much more than lift his head to peer in the direction of Aramis, who was also lying on the ground inside the circle. “M’fine,” he promised, when Athos kept fussing. “Him!”

Athos took another moment to check Porthos’ pulse, but went to Aramis’ side.

Porthos kept his head elevated as long as he could, but he was fighting a losing battle. He did stay awake long enough to see Athos lift up the collar in the air like a triumph of victory and that was all Porthos needed. The collar was off.

_Aramis was free_.

With a happy, exhausted laugh, Porthos collapsed back and gave in to the unconsciousness that had been trying to win him over since he had finished such a long, grueling spell. Athos would take care of Aramis and him, both. They would both be fine. _Shame_ , Porthos did think as he was passing out, _I’m going to miss the cat curling up in the middle of winter._

But the alternative was much better.

* * *

**Fifteen Years After**

“She’s crying again,” Athos said, lying awake in their massive bed and staring up at the ceiling (painted with luminescent paint to resemble galaxies, which Aramis had done accidentally-on-purpose when painting the ceiling with mistakenly enchanted paints). Porthos craned his head to the side wearily and burrowed his face in Aramis’ chest. Given the man’s experience with children and love for babies, he was disappointing the both of them by being utterly horrible at the night shift.

Porthos sighed and stared upwards. “I’ll go,” he finally relented, when the game of chicken didn’t seem like it would end anytime soon.

Aramis made a grateful murmur, but given that it was 2AM and he’d been asleep, Porthos vindictively reached out to flick a finger at his hip, waking him up. Because Athos had been halfway up and clearly intending to help, Porthos gave _him_ a grateful kiss.

“You’re so awful to me,” Aramis sighed, but he tugged his pillow closer against his head. “Shame I love you both so much.”

Porthos shook his head fondly and wandered into the nursery to pick up little Emilie from her crib, leaning back to lift her up into his arms and against his chest where she could hear his heartbeat. The cat (newly acquired only two months after Aramis had become fully human again, when all three of them realized there felt like a hole had invaded their lives) wound her way through Porthos’ legs as he hitched the baby and her blanket in a little tighter.

“You always cry in the middle of the night and make such a fuss,” he soothed her with a sing-song tone. “Why do you do that princess, eh? Your other daddies need their beauty sleep, Athos most of all.” He smirked when he felt the offended little _ping_ that meant that Athos had plenty well heard what he said.

Plodding over to the rocking chair, Porthos settled down into it with Emilie in his arms, smiling with ridiculously warm fondness as she splayed her tiny fingers out over his heart, like she was seeking out the heartbeat. He hummed an old lullabye that he remembered Anne singing to him when he was small and just found, taking joy in the fact that Emilie seemed to like it just as much.

He didn’t know when, exactly, he fell asleep in all this, but one moment the moonlight had been spilling into the room and the next, Porthos was opening his eyes to Aramis fixing the blanket around him and the baby a little tighter while the sound of Athos in the kitchen drew a bleary, ridiculous smile to his lips.

“She okay?” was all Porthos asked.

Aramis’ soft laugh was one of Porthos’ favourite sounds in the world. It was only matched by Athos’ barked and shocking laughter and the happy sounds Emilie made that gave Porthos the assurance that they were doing right by her.

“Porthos,” Aramis assured, squeezing his hand. “Athos is making my favourite breakfast and pouring cups of coffee exactly the way you like it. Emilie hasn’t cried since she woke up in the night and will soon be feasting on her own breakfast. I love you and I love Athos and he, in turn, loves us. I know you love the both of us with all your heart because there isn’t any part of you that could do any less.”

Emilie gave that sound, that perfect sound, and Porthos curled her all the tighter, even though he knew there were practical things to turn to, soon.

“We are all of us perfect,” Aramis promised.

So, much, much better than just _okay_.

“Good,” he said with a grin. “Let’s keep it that way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading all the way through this! As always, you can find me [at andrea-lyn](http://andrea-lyn.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
